Miles to Go
by Athena Catriona
Summary: When Spot's past returns to haunt him, his choices affect the entire Brooklyn Lodging House.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: People, events, places (nouns in general) from Newsies belong to Disney.  
  
I'm making absolutely no money off of them, so please don't sue me. Everything else  
  
belongs to me, so please don't use them without my permission. Enjoy!  
  
Miles to Go  
  
By Athena  
  
Spot awoke silently, before even the sun had slipped over the horizon and had the ability to cast shadows throughout the bunkroom and thus give away his noiselessly moving figure. He dressed quickly and quietly, pulling on his best shirt- donated from the nuns at St. Patrick's and the only one which lacked several noticeable holes- and worn red suspenders (which had been a vibrant shade of crimson years ago when he had first acquired them). From his pocket he extracted a note he had scrawled out yesterday and strolled over to another bunk where Wager, second-in-command of the Brooklyn newsies, slept soundly and occasionally murmured incoherently. Spot placed the scrap of paper atop Wager's black cap, which rested on the floor beside the boy's bed, knowing that the boy would undoubtedly discover the note there and that Wafer would have no problem leading the other newsies to sell that morning. It wasn't often that Spot relinquished his duties as leader. Such incidents only occurred during extreme emergencies, but this morning proved to be such a situation.  
  
He slid cautiously past Gellar's front desk, although the man's snores were audible even from where Spot was standing and loudly declared that the man would not be waking for at least another half of an hour. He just couldn't afford the risk of taking the possibility of accidentally waking someone who would inquire as to his destination on this chilly autumn morning.  
  
With a single, swift backwards glance towards the shadowy, creaky staircase which lead up to the bunk rooms, Spot fled like a ghost from the building, only the faint click of the door and a crisp wind giving any evidence that anyone had been there at all.  
  
The streets were uncommonly empty, save the few individuals who were already sleepily stalking the streets on their ways to work. Even the homeless children, huddled together in the mouths of darkened alleys, were still drifting through dreams of warm blankets and mountains of delectable food. The tap of Spot's faithful cane against the sidewalk beat out a rhythmic tattoo, calling the attention of several vendors who were beginning to display their wares. Spot's stomach silently growled as he recalled how terrible last night's dinner had been, but sped up his pace as he marched by the stalls filled with fresh fruits and vegetables. He knew he didn't have time for such luxuries this morning...he wondered if even now he was too late.  
  
He pushed such thoughts out of his mind. Come on, pick up da pace, Spot. You'se got a long ways aheada ya.   
  
Spot strolled with his inured air of confidence evident in even the most insignificant of his movements. Though he wasn't as tall or as muscular as some of the other Brooklyn newsies (large, brawny boys with whom no one in their right mind would dare pick a fight), he commanded a certain respect from nearly everyone he crossed paths with. However, only a rare few ever earned the respect of the Brooklyn leader.  
  
  Thanks to the light tapping of Spot's treasured cane against the cobblestone streets, the memories of one of those select few revived themselves in his mind. "Never underestimate yourself, my boy. You're bound for great things," the faintest whispers of a ghostly voice resonated in the newsboy's mind, although the words didn't serve to inspire him. Ironically, they only caused him to become even more morose.  
  
  His stomach was twisting in a combination of anxiety and emotional pain as he marched through the streets of Manhattan. He didn't particularly care to spend time in this borough, preferring to remain in his own Brooklyn. If any of da newsies from heah ta Chicago evah knew dat Manhattan makes me as noivous as I make most of da newsies heah, dey'd drop dead of shock, he thought with grim humor.  
  
  "Spot?" a familiar voice that couldn't contain its surprise called to the Brooklyn newsie, causing Spot's stomach to drop into his shoes. Shit, why did I have ta run inta him, tahday of all days? Spot silently demanded of himself and turned slowly on his heel- while adopting his infamous tough, cool demeanor- to face none other than Jack Kelly who was currently striding over.  
  
  "Whadda ya doin' heah at dis time of day?" Jack inquired in confusion. "Da way I hoid it, da Brooklyn newsies are so great at sellin', you'se get up at noon ta sell da mornin' edition and still manage ta make a profit."  
  
  Though under normal circumstances he would have grinned at the remark, Spot's eyes narrowed in defense. "Whadda ya, me muddah? I could ask you'se da same question."  
  
  Jack's teasing smile swiftly fell into a solemn frown. "I'se headed ta Harlem," he answered slowly as he pondered what was wrong with the leader of Brooklyn. "Some business wid da Harlem newsies about a fight last week."  
  
  "Well, I'se got some business myself," Spot answered shortly, in a tone which demanded the end to any possible interrogation.  
  
  Anyone else looking into Spot's eyes would have only noticed his natural power. However, Jack knew the boy well enough to gaze behind this appearance of strength to witness the faintest evidence of distress in Spot's stare. Immediately, Jack realized just why the Brooklyn leader had come so far that morning. "Well, I guess I'll see ya around, den."  
  
  Spot nodded and muttered, "See ya, Cowboy," but was unwilling to meet Jack's gaze. The Manhattan newsie waited only a second longer to study Spot in curious concern, and then marched off, disappearing around a corner a moment later.  
  
  Tahday of all days, Spot scowled in silent disgust, turned swiftly on his heel, and continued on his way.  
  
   
  
*****  
  
  Despite the fact that the sun had burst over the horizon moments before, the narrow staircase was still enveloped in shadows. The dark wood of the hall was ancient and threatened to crumble to dust, but at least t that moment it held up the weight of the slim newsboy. The putrid odor of mold and the excrement of rodents hung maliciously in the air, stenches which caused Spot's stomach to grip and his cheeks to pale visibly. He clutched his faithful cane so that his knuckles soon matched his face and slowed his pace slightly, but never stopped moving upward. Spot found it extremely ironic that although he was ascending the staircase, he felt as though he were moving into the depths of hell.  
  
  He marched silently through more hallways and up another set of stairs, listening to the familiar sounds of families preparing for another seemingly endless day in a factory. Behind closed doors, he could hear foreign expressions mumbled between still drowsy children and firm mothers. He recalled Gellar roughly shaking the newsboys awake each morning with his shouts of "Get up, get up ye lazy devils! That means ye, Gull!" followed by one of the boys waking with a start and falling to the floor with a loud crash (a noise which served to waken anyone who could have possibly slumbered through Gellar's cries). Spot had been awakened in such a manner since he was five, the youngest recorded member of the Brooklyn Lodging House. And yet he recalled voices from years before- both terrible, violent voices which still unnerved him to no end and kind, gentle voices which comforted his fears.  
  
  He stopped to face one of the rows of doors, worn faux-brass numbers hanging against the wood- apartment number 43. Heah goes not'ing, he told himself with a silent sigh and, gathering his courage, knocked twice against the wood.  
  
  The sound of the shuffling of footsteps followed, and within a moment the door inched cautiously open as though the person on the other side feared an attack. A woman glanced out at Spot from her apartment. Her brown hair, which had been luxurious and the color of mahogany in her youth, was growing scant and streaked with silver. Wrinkles of worry had made themselves apparent long ago. She was slender from not eating enough and of medium height, and at that moment was clad in a severely plain green dress. Her turquoise eyes had lost their hopeful glimmer years prior, and now seemed as dull as her clothing. Teardrops sparkled when she realized who stood before her.  
  
  "Hi, Mom," Spot mumbled uncertainly but then adopted his usual appearance of strength and calm.  
  
  His mother could not reply due to the tears that had slipped onto her cheeks, but motioned for Spot to enter the room, which he did so cautiously.  
  
  Gazing around, the leader of the Brooklyn newsies felt a faint chill race up and down his spine. He gulped as he recalled years ago, before he had joined the Brooklyn newsies...before he had even known Jack (who had been referred to as Francis then, while Spot was Ethan). He recalled the frozen nights in winter and the boiling days of summer; his father's voice bellowing throughout the room, almost causing the walls to crumble at his feet; his mother crying silent tears are she meticulously washed dishes; his siblings quaking in fear as he ordered himself to remain composed and strong for their sake.  
  
  The room hadn't changed all that much since Spot had last stepped through that doorway more than a year ago. The floors were still bare and splinters protruded like knives. Coal in a single stove burned slowly, the only source of heat in the frigid room. A lone, grimy window allowed a view of the tenement next door and never permitted in even the smallest ray of sunlight. From the next room (the only other room in the apartment), the sound of a hacking cough shattered the quiet tension. By the warm stove sat three small, huddled figures who began murmuring amongst themselves when they caught sight of Spot standing beside his mother. The smallest one finally leapt up from her place on the uncomfortable floor and threw her arms enthusiastically around Spot's waist.  
  
  "I knew ya'd come," she insisted in a hushed voice, so soft that Spot had to guess at her words rather than hear them. "Jesse and Becca didn't believe me, even dough I told 'em."  
  
  "Yeah," was all Spot could say as he unwound the girl and gently held her back at arm's length, as though fending off the attentions of an overly exuberant puppy. He then turned to his mother and murmured, "So am I...how is he?"  
  
  He mother shook her head and brought her worn handkerchief to her eyes. "Not good, Ethan. It won't be much longer now."  
  
  He nodded stoically, his frown deepening with each passing minute. His heart began to pound madly and he prayed that no one in the room would hear it. Lily was gazing up at him with such wide, hopeful eyes that he didn't dare to display the slightest trace of...what was it? Grief? Fear? Anticipation? Shaking the thought out of his head, he inquired softly, "Can I see him?"  
  
  "Ah...yes...of course," his mother replied brokenly, as if surprised by the request, and cleared her throat as she dried her eyes. "This way."  
  
  Spot took a step towards the room from which the coughs were produced, but halted for a split second before he stepped through the doorway. What da hell am I doin'? he demanded frantically of himself. But then he caught sight of his younger brother and sisters studying him with such intensity that he forced himself to take that next step.  
  
  He found himself facing a tall but extremely thin man lying in a poorly constructed bed with thin, abused blankets covering his quaking body. His skin was sickly pale and this, combined with his natural slimness, caused Spot to think of a rotting corpse. Even in such a weakened state, the man's features were cold and hard; automatically, Spot recalled days long past, when he had been no more than five years old. A vicious, terrifying voice echoed throughout his mind. "Whadda ya doin'?! Get outta my way, ya good-for-not'ing parasite!" Spot grasped his cane even tighter, an action which calmed him a bit.  
  
  Without warning, the man ceased coughing and opened his eyes slightly. He began to chuckle maliciously when he saw who stood before him. Spot's heart beat wildly against his chest and he longed to bolt out of the room, but felt his feet frozen to the floor and knew that four pairs of eyes were focusing on the back of his head.  
  
  "So ya decided ta come...." the man muttered with bitter humor. "Decided ta drop by from wheah you'se all mighty in Brooklyn. Well, Brooklyn's shit, boy. Ya didn't have ta come gloatin' and boastin' heah!" His exclamation got the better of him, resulting in a moment of severe coughing so that Spot had to wonder if the man's lungs would explode.  
  
  "Dad, I didn't come ta gloat," he mumbled with as much coolness as he could muster up at that moment. "I-"  
  
  "I know what ya came for," his father spat out, glaring viciously at his son. "Ta make sure I'se dead. Ta try and get da one up on me."  
  
  "No, dat's-"  
  
  "Well, who da hell needs ya?! Get da hell outta my house!" He frantically gesticulated towards the doorway, cursing wildly. And with a final unemotional stare, Spot retreated from the screaming man's room just as he burst into another fit of noisy coughs.  
  
  His mother immediately reached for the boy, whose eyes darted from object to object in the room and didn't dare to settle on any person and who retreated from his mother's touch. "Ethan, he didn't mean it. It's the fever, really, honey. He didn't-"  
  
  "Sure," Spot said indifferently and clutched his cane with both hands.  
  
  Evelyn!" the raging voice from the next room bellowed, causing the worry lines on the face of Spot's mother to deepen visibly. "I'll be right back," she said with such emotion that it seemed to be more than a promise, more like a prayer, and rushed into the other room.  
  
  However, Spot didn't feel the need or the desire to await her return. "See ya around," he promised his siblings over his shoulder as he tossed a wad of dollar bills onto a nearby, dilapidated table. Without waiting for a response, he rushed out the door and closed it with a loud clatter. Only in the shadowy hallway could he allow himself to clutch his left breast, under which he was certain his heart was pounding with the force of a cannon. Why da hell did I come? he harshly questioned himself, leaning against a wall and struggling to maintain his cool veneer...not that there was anyone to maintain it for now. Yet it had become such a habit that Spot even adopted this facade when there was no one around to witness his frenzy.  
  
  As his heartbeat slowed to a somewhat normal rate, he began the journey back to Brooklyn, although he wasn't sure that even there could he truly he escape his troubles.  
  
   
  
*****  
  
The sometimes melancholy, often cheerful, and always thoughtful melodies of a well-played harmonica wafted pleasantly through Roxy's ears as she scanned the day's headlines, and caused her feet to long to dance. She hummed a familiar tune under her breath as she gazed at the slightly smudged print which made up articles concerning battles fought, wedding vows exchanged, and political arguments. She caught sight of a small article on the bottom of page eight, one which would undoubtedly gone unnoticed by the untrained eye. "Psychotic doctor makes sure his patients never wake up!" she called to the masses and received more than a few alarmed expressions in return. A tall gentlemen decked out in gray-toned finery which matched his silver hair paid for a paper and marched off, only to discover later that the doctor in question was actually a praised veterinarian from Queens.  
  
Roxy smiled as she called out more exaggerated versions of articles, not minding that this morning's edition was particularly ordinary and thus required the need for even more distorted headlines than usual. The weather was lovely; the breakfast donated by some random children's aid society had been plentiful (if a bit stale); and several coins were already jingling a jaunty tune in the girl's worn pocket. Yes, it seemed as though the morning might prove to be an agreeable one.  
  
"Hey, Roxy!" Rabbit, the quickest newsgirl in New York (she was constantly challenging Swifty to footraces whenever the opportunity arose) and who seemed to have an endless stream of boyfriends, shouted to the girl. "Meet ya at Peg's for lunch!"  
  
"Sure, see you there!" Roxy called back. Rabbit signaled her agreement before disappearing around a nearby corner.  
  
You better sell faster, she told herself in a firm tone reminiscent of a mother superior, or else you're going to just have water to satisfy your hunger pangs later on. With a dogged expression firmly implanted on her face, she began to should out even more headlines to the Brooklyn crowds. "Doctor's methods prove fatal! Police look the other way! Could this happen to you?!"  
  
"I'll take one," a voice from behind that, although just recently passed the stage of random high-pitched inflections, demanded respect and attention. However, Roxy found, this tone was not the sort that Spot possessed and she had to resist the urge to glare at the evidently wealthy young man.  
  
"Certainly, sir," she murmured quietly and drew a single newspaper from her stack of sixty. She glanced up to see- just as she had suspected- a boy roughly her own age clad in expensive fabrics and perfectly groomed in both appearance and manners. Roxy supposed that her entire wardrobe cost far less than even his embroidered handkerchief. At his side was a young lady who, like her companion, was decked out in the latest Parisian fashion and whose hair (the shade of crystallized honey) was curled to stylish perfection. The boy dropped a penny into the newsgirl's hand and snatched the paper away without a further remark.  
  
Roxy couldn't help studying the pair's retreating figures with curiosity as they strolled away (no doubt discussing their absolute abhorrence of interacting with such lowly people) with their newspaper in hand. She knew of only one girl- a Manhattan newsgirl called Ivy- who had been a member of the upper class, although Ivy never cared to talk about her past. Roxy pondered what it would be like to be waited on and pampered from dawn to twilight; to be dressed in only the softest fabrics and to gaze at diamond twinkling on her hand with the brilliance of a hundred stars; to attend formal balls and waltz with the governor's son as he whispered clever remarks into her ear and as a matronly chaperone looked on with solemn and protective eyes. Around her, men and women worked endlessly in hopes of achieving such success. And yet it seemed that the rich were the ones who acquired more wealth, while the poor continued to live (if one could call it that) in squalor.  
  
She sighed faintly and gazed down at her own appearance. Well, no one could ever mistake me for the mayor's daughter, she thought, laughing lightly. Her clothing- chocolate corduroys, patched blue cotton shirt, and faded black suspenders- was hardly adequate for even the most insignificant of balls. She tried to imagine her chestnut tresses (which were at that moment tied into braided pigtails) styled into impeccable curls and fell into a fit of laughter. I'd look ridiculous in satin, anyway, she told herself, still chuckling slightly, and scanned a paper for another headline to improve.  
  
A few hours later, after a relatively profitable morning, Roxy recalled her appointment with Rabbit and most likely the rest of her fellow Brooklyn newsies. Adjusting her tattered, deep gray cap, she hanged a final paper to an elderly middle-class woman and began her stroll to Peg's, the restaurant which the Brooklyn newsies frequented daily. This was, however, mostly due to not the delectable cooking, but to the low priced which the newsies could afford even after a poor day of selling and an extreme loss at the poker hall. Roxy's mouth began to water as she recalled plates of sandwiches made with thick Italian bread and cups of strong, piping hot coffee.  
  
Her thoughts were so concentrated on her rumbling stomach that she didn't notice the unfriendly shape approaching her until it slammed her into a very unkind, very solid brick wall.  
  
She groaned, certain that she would have a few new bruises decorating her right arm the next morning, and gazed up to see her attacker. A muscular boy stood before her, a stack of newspapers tucked securely under his arm and a scowl implanted firmly on his wide lips. He was certainly not the most handsome of young men, with rough features and icy eyes that completed the appearance of brutality. His clothing was average newsie garb, although it seemed less clean and more abused than the apparel of the Brooklyn newsies. A tangled mess of greasy blonde locks snaked out from under a black cap, reminding Roxy of wicked, enchanted vines from a fairy tale. To anyone not among the ranks of the newsies, he would have appeared to be just another newsboy clad in unclean clothing stalking the streets. However, Roxy knew far better.  
  
"What're you doing here, Bulldog?" she demanded with more fierceness than she felt existed in her spirit at that point in time. "This is Spot's territory."  
  
"Not for long," he drawled with a smug smirk and spit noisily into the gutter. "And ya can tell Spotty I told ya so myself."  
  
Roxy's eyes narrowed to slits at these words. Glaring ferociously at the boy, she took a small step away from the wall and towards her attacker. "From what I've heard," she replied in a calm, patient voice as though he were a slow-witted child, "the Debler Street newsies are all talk and no action. So is that why you had to attack me instead of going directly to Spot himself?" With that, she spit squarely and violently into his face.  
  
Just then, Roxy remembered how massive Bulldog was and just how he had come to acquire his nickname. She attempted to bolt away before he had the change to react, but she was only a few steps away when the newsboy reached out and tossed her effortlessly to the wall yet again, pining her there.  
  
Bulldog drew back his fist and, with a savage expression that caused Roxy to quake, prepared to send her into unconsciousness. "Forget Spot. I'se gonna rearrange your teeth," he growled, eyes growing darker by the moment. Roxy attempted to struggle free from his firm grasp and kicked wildly at him, although her efforts seemed to be in vain. But she as Bulldog seemed prepared to strike, he yowled in pain and released the girl from his clutches.  
  
"Why don'tcha pick on someone you'se own size- like a movin' train," Grin snarled, his slingshot still raised ominously. His common mischievous smile had vanished from his lips and in its place appeared a solemn, threatening frown.  
  
The girl wasted no time in seizing the opportunity, and dashed over to Grin's side, extracting her own slingshot from her back pocket. They glared at their opponent stonily. Facing the two newsies, Bulldog seemed far less daring and intimidating.  
  
"You'se is gonna be sorry…Jackal's gonna take ovah, and you'se are all gonna be sorry," he swore passionately, eyes blazing, and spit into the gutter yet again as though to emphasize his declaration. Then he turned on his heel and bolted away, soon disappearing into the masses.  
  
Roxy turned to her fellow newsie with gratitude lighting her eyes. "Thanks, Grin."  
  
He shrugged and, trademark teasing smile returning to his lips, replied, "It ain't not'ing, kid. Bulldog's just a bully and I hate dem. Plus, I couldn't let one of my favorite newsgoils get soaked, could I?"  
  
"Yeah," she murmured, somewhat self-consciously. As the two made their way to Peg's (and as Grin began to declare his love for a beautiful girl he had sold to that morning, although he didn't have a clue as to her whereabouts or her name for that matter), Roxy glanced down at her body and mentally scowled. She was one of the smallest newsgirls in Brooklyn ("petite" was the polite term Mist had used) and definitely not the strongest. It was more than a little embarrassing to constantly need the defense of others against assholes such as Bulldog. She sighed lightly and realized that Grin had asked her something. "What?"  
  
"I asked ya if ya knew wheah I could find her- da goil," he repeated patiently. "I ain't seen her around my usual sellin' spot, dat was da foist time."  
  
She shook her head sympathetically. "Nope, sorry Grin. Ask Cardinal; she knows everything about everyone in Brooklyn."  
  
"I should…" he mumbled thoughtfully and Roxy knew by his slowly vanishing smile that his mind was now on other, far more solemn topics. "What's wrong?" she inquired cautiously and gently.  
  
Grin opened his mouth but then closed it again, shaking his head. Roxy waited a moment and was about to speak up herself, but then the boy continued, "It's Spot. I don't know if ya've noticed, but he's…he ain't hisself. It's like he's not deah anymoah, always t'inkin' of somet'ing else. He nevah jokes around anymoah or goes swimmin' or not'ing. It's weird."  
  
Roxy nodded gravely. She had observed the same thing about the Brooklyn leader. Spot would mysteriously disappear in the middle of the day and never mention where he went. He had become introspective and distracted so not even one of Gull's wild tales or Wager's weekly games of intense poker could interest him. He was still a good leader and made certain that there were no problems in the lodging house…and yet Roxy felt that he was slowly removing himself from the newsies.  
  
"I know what you mean," she assured her friend.  
  
"Nobody knows what's da maddah wid him, eiddah. Not Wagah, not Cardinal, nobody."  
  
"I haven't got a clue either," she admitted with a small, almost apologetic shrug. "He's not exactly one to just talk about his feelings, you know?"  
  
"Well, he'd beddah get ovah it soon. Or else we're gonna lose all our territory."  
  
Roxy knew all too well to what the boy was referring. Bulldog was one of the Debler Street newsies, from another lodging house in Brooklyn. However, these newsies made up quite a wild, sometimes even violent group who longed for the prime selling area that Spot's newsies (known as the Brooklyn newsies as they were infamous throughout New York City) had possessed for years. And now it seemed that the Debler newsies' leader, Jackal, was preparing to procure the territory for his own.  
  
She frowned hopelessly and bit her lower lip in worry. "We might end up losing more than that," she said softly, clutching her papers tightly as though they were a lifeline.  
  
*****  
  
The damp, golden leaves faintly crunching under Spot's feet announced the newsboy's entrance into the cemetery. Thankfully, no one save an elderly groundskeeper had seen him enter. The leader of the Brooklyn newsies realized that it was nearly noon and he should have already returned to purchase the afternoon edition, but he still felt as though he couldn't face the newsies. Not just yet.  
  
He felt his stomach grip as he marched by the myriad of graves; they would have one more to add to their ranks come that evening. Yet it wasn't the new grave that interested him as he strode confidently through the rows, face harder and colder than stone. He didn't dare to glance down at the names or, even worse, the dates carved with care into the tombstones. Once he had made the mistake of looking at the names of elderly immigrants, middle-aged factory workers slain in accidents during their labors, infants who hadn't had the opportunity to glance upon the world for more than a moment, and young men struck down in the primes of their lives. Spot couldn't conceal a shiver at the memory of the sight of those carvings.  
  
His feet came to a halt in front of a simple grave, one without ornate decoration or sentiments etched into the stone. It was, however, kept much better than the majority of the graves. The surrounding grass was cut to perfection; no weeds crept sinuously over the ground; occasionally a single flower (usually a rose of the deepest red of a flawlessly white lily) was placed with care in the shadow of the tombstone. Simple words were cared with meticulousness:  
  
Alexander Ethan Williams  
  
1815-1890  
  
Rest in Peace  
  
Another grave rested beside the first, and although the second was also taken great care of, it was marked with a large rough stone, four jagged words cut into the rock: Spot- Rest in Peace.  
  
The newsboy clutched his cane, ragged nails digging into the smooth wood. He didn't bat an eyelash as he studied the graves intensely, as though the sight were new to his blue-green eyes. Then he swiftly glanced around and, certain that the groundskeeper was nowhere to be seen, knelt carefully on the leaves and grass, both of which were slick with tiny pools of collected rainwater. Although he had never been inside a church, he imagined that he appeared to be a young priest genuflecting before a sacred altar. That actually wasn't such a far cry from what he genuinely felt towards the bodies lying deep beneath the damp earth. Against his will he began to recall things from years past, memories that haunted his mind like wailing, icy ghosts….  
  
A young boy, tall for his five years and faint freckles dotted across the bridge of his nose, moaned dramatically and tossed himself to the sidewalks. "Ya got me! Ya got me! Ugghhh!" The cowboy hat perched atop his greasy brown tresses (which Ethan's mother considered to be too long) was far too large for his head and occasionally obstructed his sight when not positioned carefully enough. "I'se dead!"  
  
A smaller youth with striking eyes smirked triumphantly as he waved his shoddy wooden sword into the air and marched to his 'dying' friend's side. "Well, Sir Francis of da Village, I guess ya won't be distressin' no dames no more," he drawled confidently.  
  
Screeching like a wild animal, Francis leapt from his position on the sidewalk and began to poke his friend with his own wooden weapon. "Ha ha!" he exclaimed in the manner of vaudeville villains, "I was jus' foolin' ya! I had on special armor dat can't get hurt by swords."  
  
"Oh, yeah?" Ethan growled, eyes narrowing to slits. "Well I gots a special sword dat can go through special armor."  
  
"Den how come I'se alive now, huh?"  
  
"It takes a couple of hits, of coise, ya moron."  
  
Francis lunged theatrically at his friend and cried, "Ah-ha! Now you'se done for, Sir Ethan of Central Pawk!"  
  
"Nevah!" he laughed and threw himself out of harm's way, and into the path of a tall, slender man with piercing blue eyes. He glared at the boy, whose gleeful expression immediately vanished at the sight of the man. "Hiya, Dad," he muttered anxiously and cast a sidelong glance at his friend, who was gnawing at his small lower lip in nervousness. The ice in his father's eyes made Ethan grow utterly silent.  
  
"Whadda ya doin' wastin' ya're time out heah?" the man, Bill, demanded harshly. "Ya could be helpin' ya're muddah out at home, but do ya t'ink of dat? No, ya jus' waste time wid da oddah troublemakahs like you'se." He scowled bitterly and, casting his son one final glance, marched off. He muttered under his breath as he walked away, "Nevah gonna amount ta not'ing, dat kid."  
  
Neither boy spoke for a moment. Then Francis cautiously stepped up behind Ethan, who stared at Bill's retreating figure as though he were caught in a hypnotist's emotionless trance. "Well, I beddah be gettin' home…." When his friend didn't move, Francis sighed heavily and turned on his heel. He was halfway down the block when he whirled around again and shouted, "Hey Ethan! You'se gonna move up in da woild, like dem rich guys in da mansions by da ocean! Like in da papes! You'se gonna have a rivah view and everyt'ing!"  
  
The words echoed in Spot's mind as he studied the graves, restlessly turning his cane between his fingers. There had been only one other person besides Francis (called Jack now, and who had risen to his own level of prestige after the strike) who had had so much confidence in him, even when he had only been a child. Spot recalled the long planes of Alexander's cheeks, the sparkling spectacles positioned on a rather large nose, the scant gray hair, and the striking eyes that were so much like his own in their hue. The aroma of his pipe tobacco had been potent in his poor but well-kept gray jacket. He had had a strong handshake and a firm embrace which a young Spot had taken comfort in, particularly after his father had yelled at him for being a lazy good-for-nothing. "You're bound for great things," Alexander used to say with utmost certainty in his voice. Ethan had felt he could take on the world.  
  
"Would ya be so proud of me now, Granddad?" Spot murmured so softly that his words were lost on the breeze. He closed his eyes very tightly, ordering himself to retain his cool demeanor. Swiftly his rose from his position on the damp grass and didn't dare to look back at the gravestones as he marched out of the cemetery. 


	2. Chapter 2

Damp air blew across the river and into the Brooklyn Lodging House, mingling with the usual clamor that filled the boys' bunkroom. Gull was playing a merry tune on his tin whistle, although some of the players involved in an intense game of five-card draw were protesting the tune. Some of the younger newsies dashed around the hallway, pretending to be pirates on the high seas in search of buried gold. Downstairs, Gellar was smoking a rather thick cigar (a potent aroma which could be smelt from miles away) and skimming through the news as he searched for the results from the track.  
  
"Best lookin' guy I evah saw," gushed Rabbit as she twisted Cardinal's locks into a long, flaming red braid. "Too bad he's in da Bronx. We need some good guys ovah heah, I sweah."  
  
Overhearing this, Grin lifted his head from the card game and adopted an affronted expression. "Dey make 'em all right in Brooklyn."  
  
Rabbit flashed her best smile, the one she commonly used when she wanted someone to loan her five cents. "Of coise I didn't mean you, Grin. You'se my favorite outta everybody, really."  
  
Grin beamed with pride and winked at the newsgirl, and yelped in pain when Wager whacked him over the back of the head. "Ante up already. We ain't nevah gonna finish dis game if ya keep flirtin' wid every goil dat walks in heah wid a pulse."  
  
"Hey, I resemble dat comment," Grin replied, laughed lightly, and tossed two cents into the rather large pile.  
  
Roxy, who had been listening to the conversation with half a mind, smiled and giggled under her breath. She was sprawled out on her bunk, leafing through a dank, tattered copy of A Tale of Two Cities that she had found in a trashcan behind an ivy-encased private school. For most people who desired a peaceful time to read, attempting to even glance at the slightly damp pages would have been nearly impossible in this din. The newsgirl, however, would have found it odd to read in any other environment. After spending years in the Brooklyn Lodging House, she was inured to Peach's high-pitched laughter, Duck relating tall tales with his thick Irish accent, and Cardinal bolting after Smoke when he stole her treasured necklace just to see if she would notice.  
  
"So anyway," Rabbit continued," He's da greatest. We gotta t'ink of any excuse ta go visit da Bronx newsies dis week. Maybe we can say we hoid dey was havin' a big pokah game or somet'ing and-"  
  
Her narrative was cut shot when she saw that all of the other newsies had suddenly become statues. Their eyes had all turned towards the door with feigned nonchalance and didn't dare to cast each other curious glances. Everyone held their breaths and refused to even blink. Recognizing the tense situation, Wager cleared his throat and tossed down his cards, revealing a straight in spades (beating out Leap's three sevens), an action that took most people's attention off of their leader, who stood in the doorframe.  
  
Spot appeared not to have noticed the momentary lapse in conversation; and if he had, he apparently had no wish to comment on it. Without even so much as a glance at any of the newsies, Spot tossed his cap onto his bunk, marched to the window, and leapt onto the fire escape. Several newsies began whispering about his odd behavior, making sure to keep their voices low enough so that they wouldn't carry to the window.  
  
From across the room, Wager and Roxy eyed each other solemnly. The newsgirl shut her book while Wager collected his winnings and shoved them into his pocket. "Deal me out," he told the others and rushed over to Roxy's bunk.  
  
"He's gettin' woise," the newsboy whispered. "If dis keeps up, Brooklyn's gonna lose everyt'ing it's got."  
  
She nodded gravely. "Jackal's getting restless. He's not going to wait around much longer, especially not with rumors flying around that Spot's losing it." She paused for a moment, and then continued in a more hopeful tone, "Has Spot mentioned anything to you about where he's been going or what's bothering him? Anything at all?"  
  
"Not a woid. He jus' drops a scrap of paper on my hat in da mornin' if I need ta take ovah for a liddle while. And dat's been happenin' more and more often."  
  
"I know. And he makes sure he's never seen, at least by anyone this side of the East River."  
  
Wager sighed heavily and absently adjusted his cap. "Well, I guess we'd beddah head ovah ta da oddah side of da East Rivah and see what we can find out."  
  
*****  
  
"…t'rew her against da wall, looked like she was gonna break in two. Soives her right; woulda got moah, if dat oddah newsie hadn't shown up ta attack me when I wasn't lookin'."  
  
A large group of Debler Street newsies were seated on the narrow, shadowy stairway of their lodging house, most smoking poorly made cigarettes and all smirking at Bulldog's escapade. One of the younger, more daring newsies rolled his eyes and drawled, "So I guess only two of da Brooklyn newsies are too much for ya, huh? Well, one, 'cause da oddah's a goil and all. Maybe ya outta get somebody ta go wid ya next time you'se in deir territory- ya know, for protection."  
  
The boy had just opened his mouth to laugh when Bulldog silenced him with a single punch. The younger newsie tumbled down several stairs before he grabbed the railing and caught his balance. Blood streamed from his nose and trickled onto his perspiration-stained shirt.  
  
"Ya broke my nose!" he exclaimed.  
  
Bulldog chuckled and drew a long drag from his cigarette. "Ya'll live."  
  
A lanky boy with bad skin and a long nose sneered, "So, Toad, maybe you'se da one who needs protection, even around you'se down lodgin' house."  
  
All of the newsies save Toad (who was rushing up the stairs in search for a rag or stray piece of newspaper to stop the flow of blood) fell into fits of laughter. The owner of the lodging house, an icy-eyed man named Mr. Felter, banged on the wall with a large fists and bellowed, "Shut you'se traps, ya buncha lazy bastards, ya…" His voice trailed off into an incoherent mumble as he scanned the newspaper in his hands, while the newsies rolled their eyes.  
  
"So Bulldog," the lanky boy, called Dash, said, "did ya see Spot anywheahs in deir territory tahday?"  
  
The large newsie shook his head triumphantly, as though his presence alone had kept the infamous leader at bay. "Not a trace of him. Rumors are beginnin' ta fly around dat he's cracked. It's gonna be a synch ta take ovah deir territory. I say we jus' do it now and get it while da gettin's good."  
  
"Dat's why you'se ain't da brains of dis lodgin' house, Bulldog," a voice snarled from the bottom of the staircase. The Debler Street newsie glanced up from their clouds of smoke to see their own leader standing there, glaring up at them with eyes of granite. Like Spot himself, Jackal didn't seem physically intimidating. He was shorter than most of the newsies of his age and had skin that seemed too pale, as though it were more appropriate for a corpse than a young newsboy. His lips were thin and nearly bloodless, giving the appearance of shriveled mushrooms. He had a slight hunchback, not noticeable from a distance but which caused him to walk in an odd manner. Yet his form exuded power and malicious mental strength. A wicked light danced in his eyes, even as he glowered at the newsies seated on the staircase.  
  
Bulldog glanced at his fellow newsies for support. "Jackal, I didn't mean ta say dat ya- what I mean is dat I t'ink-"  
  
"Dat'd be a shock ta us all," Jackal snapped, yellow teeth flashing in the dull gas light. "If ya evah come up wid a real t'ought dat would actu'lly help us out, lemme know. Until den, ya shut up unless I say oddahwise." He didn't feel the need to wait for a reply. "Of coise we can't jus' go take deir territory right away. Spot's gettin' less like hisself ev'ry day; and if we wait for jus' a liddle longah, we'll be able ta take deir territory widout breakin' a sweat. If we try now, deah's a good chance dat da Brooklyn newsies are gonna be ready for us. So if anybody wants ta get da crap kicked outta dem and stay in dis goddamn place for da rest of our lives, den follow da genius Bulldog."  
  
Not even the constantly creaking staircase made a sound.  
  
A snakelike grin crept around Jackal's thin lips. "Good. Ya gotta keep watchin' for ev'ryt'ing dat goes on ovah deah, and soon we'll get deir territory- or kill 'em tryin'."  
  
*****  
  
Five people, not including the yawning, elderly undertaking or the portly priest, were present at the funeral. The morning sunlight enveloped the group and mingled with the distant sounds of laborers marching to their jobs. Silent teardrops rolled down the cheeks of Spot's mother as they had those thousands of times above the kitchen sink. The three younger children squirmed uncomfortably, not knowing whether they should break down in wild sobs as they had seen their friends do when a parent passed away or remain stoic as their oldest brother way. Anyone studying the Brooklyn newsie would have believed him to be solemn or indifferent to the entire affair, as if he had accidentally stumbled onto the scene and felt obligated to stay there out of mere politeness. The only thing possibly expressing his true feelings was the sight of his hands clutching the cane so fiercely that he wondered if it would snap like a Twig.  
  
"In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit," the priest's gentle baritone voice resonated against the tombstones, "Amen."  
  
The Father, the Son… Those words echoed throughout Spot's mind so loudly that he imagined his family could hear them as well. He felt his throat tensing up and blinked back both memories and tears. The undertaker was lowering the coffin into the ground. Spot prayed that he would not slip into unconsciousness and fall into the grave as well…and yet as he tightened his eyelids shut, he could see a vision of himself falling faster and faster.  
  
The sensation of a small arm slipping through his own brought him back to reality. He gazed down at Lily, whose sparkling blue eyes were filled with confusion. He steadied his breathing and forced color back into his pale cheeks. "It's okay," he murmured softly to his youngest sister.  
  
She stared up at him and leaned her head against his side. "Are ya gonna come home wid us, Ethan?"  
  
Out of the corner of his eye, Spot saw that his other two siblings were studying him hopefully. He felt his heart press against his chest and was forced to turn his head so that he could no longer see his family members. "I'll come visit ya soon," he vowed in an unusually tight voice. He drew away from Lily and took several steps back. "See ya around." With that, he whirled around and began to march out of the cemetery, his heart pounding madly.  
  
"Ethan!" his mother, voice chocked by tears, called out to him. But he didn't dare turn around, lest he see the expression on her face. 


	3. Chapter 3

(Author's note: I'd like to send enormous thanks out to Rae Kelly, Fastdancr, and Hica Lynn for reviewing the first two chapters of this story. You guys rock! I'm glad you've enjoyed it so far, and I greatly appreciate your comments.)  
  
Roxy could still taste the slightly bitter, piercingly salty flavor of the large pretzel that had been her lunch as she and Wager walked through the streets of Manhattan. Her stomach moaned as she caught sight of long stalls replete with fresh vegetables, spicy sausages sizzling on grills, and formal restaurants filled with important businessmen dining on sirloin steaks. Beside her, Wager was grumbling just as loudly as her stomach.  
  
"We shoulda waited 'till aftah lunch ta come ta Manhattan," he declared, shaking his head in disdain.  
  
"But you said yourself that this is the best time to come," she reminded her friend. "We'll be able to catch all the newsies in one place while they're eating. I really don't want to go on a wild goose chase that'll take us all day." When Wager's frown only deepened, she piped up, "And besides, maybe we can have something at Tibby's while we're there."  
  
Wager scowled. "No way it's as good as Peg's."  
  
"What place is?"  
  
"Maybe dat's why da Brooklyn newsies are so much beddah," the newsboy pondered as a grin began to suffuse across his lips. "Ya know, aftah our highah intelligence, good-looks, and talent."  
  
"Watch out how you talk around here," Roxy told him, glancing over at a young shoeshine boy. "We're a long way from home."  
  
Wager nodded emphatically. "You'se tellin' me!" he exclaimed and dashed across the street, Roxy at his heels. The two barely missed the ice truck that was barreling across the street, and didn't stop to respond to the driver who bellowed foreign curses at them.  
  
*****  
  
The Manhattan newsies poured into Tibby's, newspapers tucked under their arms and images of roast beef sandwiches in their minds. With headlines of battles in the Philippines, the engagement announcement of the mayor's eldest daughter, and a train wreck in Massachusetts, it had been a profitable morning that had put the newsies into a cheerful mood. A clamor began to develop as more and more newsies rushed into their usual restaurant, chattering about the events of the morning.  
  
"So deah I was," Pocket said, her eyes wide and sparkling as she told her story to a grinning Tornado and a suspiciously smirking Racetrack, "on da cornah of Fifty-Fifth and Third, sellin' my papes as usual. Da skies was filled wid dese huge black clouds- looked like pieces of coal. I knew dat if I didn't sell my last couple of papes soon, not only was I gonna have ta eat da headlines, but I was gonna get more soaked den da Delancies aftah insultin' Jack-"  
  
Racetrack tilted his head curiously. "So dis was all last week, right?" he interrupted.  
  
Her train of thought broken, Pocket paused momentarily before replying, "Yeah, last Monday."  
  
The newsboy turned to Tornado with an inquisitive smirk and asked casually, "Now is my brain playin' tricks on me, or don't I remember dat da most we got last week was a liddle showah, not enough ta drown an ant?"  
  
Tornado adjusted her cap and furrowed her forehead in thought. "Now dat seems ta be what I remembah myself."  
  
Pocket's enthusiastic smile became tightly strained for a split second before she turned to the menu scrawled on the nearby chalkboard. "Well, I'se stahving. I t'ink I'll have a roast beef sandwich." Before anyone could return to the topic of Pocket's usual exaggeration, she whirled around and shouted, "Hey, Jack! You'se gonna ta Medda's new show tahnight?!"  
  
The leader of the Manhattan newsies, who had been involved in a debate about the best improved headline from the morning, raised his head from his conversation. "Not tahnight, 'Ket. I got a date wid Sarah." He grinned roguishly as many around him groaned good-naturedly.  
  
"Again?" Violet sighed and shook her head. "Don't get me wrong, Cowboy, I like Sarah and everything-"  
  
"But you turn into a love-sonnet-spouting, starry-eyed, waltzing mass of sentiment after a good-night kiss," Twink finished with a roll of her bright blue eyes.  
  
As Jack was about to protest, Specs piped up, "It's real tortuah, Cowboy. Da only t'ing woise is hearin' about da latest goil Mush's fallen madly in love wid."  
  
"Yeah," chuckled Mush. He was mid-bite into a hotdog when his eyes flashed with understanding. "Hey!" he exclaimed indignantly, his mouth filled with meat, causing the surrounding newsies to burst into laughter.  
  
"I ain't dat bad," Jack disputed, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms over his chest. "But tahnight me and Sarah are gonna go out ta-"  
  
Just as Jack was about to relate the plans of the evening, (a story which most likely would have been met with further petulant eye-rolling and graphic threats from the unromantic Twink) the door to Tibby's swung open and, to the surprise of the Manhattan newises, Roxy and Wager rushed in, a gust of wind and the noise of the streets at their heels.  
  
"Hey, you blokes get lost on your way to Brooklyn Heights?" Aussie called out to the Brooklyn newsies, who were greeted with friendly salutations and invitations to share a glass of sarsaparilla by the older newsies, who had been involved in the strike. Some of the younger set sat in awe of the Brooklyn pair, as they had heard wild tales of the newsies who could sell a thousand a day and bend railroad tracks in two with their bare hands. Jack's expression, however, grew intensely solemn at the sight of the two newsies. A serious frown firmly implanted on his lips, he grabbed his cowboy hat and leapt to his feet to address the duo privately.  
  
"Long way from home," he commented casually as he spit into his palm and extended his hand. "I guess dis ain't jus' a friendly visit or somet'ing."  
  
Wager, shaking hands with the Manhattan leader, exchanged a sober glance with his fellow Brooklyn newsie. "Not exactly, Cowboy. We'se heah on Brooklyn business- and we'd like ta keep dis business between da t'ree of us, if you'se don't mind." His commanding tone and grave eyes were far less complying than his words.  
  
"You'se should know dat deah ain't no rats in da Manhattan newsies," Jack replied in a similar tone, and gestured to an empty booth in the far corner, where they might have some privacy. Once seated, he folded his hands on the table and leaned slightly forward. "So what's dis about?"  
  
"Well, we were wondering," Roxy began, "if any of the Manhattan newsies have seen anyone unusual walking around here."  
  
Jack eyed them from beneath the rim of his heat. "Anyone in particulah you'se wonderin' about?" he drawled curiously, the image of an anxious Brooklyn leader flashing behind his eyelids.  
  
"Anyone like Spot," Wager replied gravely. He gazed at his companion, who nodded for him to continue. "There's been rumors circlin' about Spot and Brooklyn- dat he's lost his edge, dat he's gone nuts, dat we ain't what we used ta be. And as much as we hate ta admit it, some of dese t'ings are a liddle more true den we'd like 'em ta be."  
  
"Spot hasn't been himself lately," Roxy went on, searching Jack's stony eyes for any trace of knowledge about the subject. "He's been really distracted, going off without telling anybody where he's headed to." She cocked her head towards Wager. "We think that something might be seriously wrong with him. And that could cost us our lodging house."  
  
The Manhattan leader nodded solemnly and pushed back his cowboy hat. "I've been hearin' dose rumors," he admitted, absently twirling a fork between his fingers. "So what are ya doin' in Manhattan? Especially around heah, considerin' I know dat Spot has oddah contacts in dis part of da city."  
  
The newsgirl leaned forward slightly. "We know the two of you are good friends and everything, so we thought hat maybe he had come here. He can't seem to tell anyone in Brooklyn about what's bothering him."  
  
"So we was hopin' maybe you'se could help us shed some light on da subject," Wager finished.  
  
For a moment, the noise of the restaurant seemed to hush in Jack's mind. He recalled only a few days ago when he had caught sight of Spot trekking through the streets of Manhattan at an ungodly hour of the morning. Although he hadn't asked about the purpose of his friend's appearance, he assumed it had been because of Spot's former home. Jack's mind wandered back to days when he and Spot and both been Manhattan boys, helping their mothers carry groceries and playing with marbles on the sidewalks. Spot, driven by his compassionless father, had left Manhattan when he had only been five years old to start a new life in Brooklyn. Now Jack supposed something in Manhattan had called him back.  
  
Jack sighed heavily and shook his head. "I can't help ya much deah." He paused briefl, struggling to continue, "I saw him heah a couple of days ago, real early, befoah even da oddah Manhattan newsies were up. He didn't tell me what he was heah for, dough."  
  
The two Brooklyn newsies glanced at each other and shrugged. It wasn't much, but at least it gave them a starting point.  
  
"Thanks, Jack," Roxy said with a grateful, yet worried smile as she rose from her chair. The two spit-shook with their fellow newsie and said their good-byes. On her way out the door, Roxy whirled around momentarily. "Tell us if you find out anything, will you?"  
  
Jack nodded once and watched the Brooklyn newsies vanish into the sea of pedestrians. He stood silent amid the usual chaos at Tibby's, wondering what could be happening to Spot. He had known the boy even before they had been considered to be the most famous newsies in New York, when they had been two young boys against a world of angry fathers and desolate tenements. Rumors that Brooklyn was soon to be destroyed had been spreading through Manhattan like wildfire. And by the sight of the anxious Brooklyn newsies, Jack was forced to somberly admit to himself that such predictions might be true.  
  
*****  
  
By the time Spot walked on familiar Brooklyn ground again, the sky had darkened to a deep blue. Starlight combined with the glow of the gas lamps, casting cold but comforting light on the boy. He wrapped his arms tightly around his body to contain his warmth. His teeth were clenched tightly so as not to chatter, disturbing the unusual silence of the streets, and his hot breath was dispelled as swirling clouds. He felt his bones trembling behind a blanket of muscle and flesh; he couldn't be quite certain if it were caused simply by the cold evening.  
  
Homeless men huddled in the mouths of alleys, rubbing their cracked, dry hands together. They cast Spot a curious glance as he passed. He didn't appear to have taken notice of them.  
  
As he marched towards the Brooklyn Lodging House, Spot vaguely wondered when he would be able to fulfill the promise he had made to his younger sister. Although he knew that now his father would never be able to scream at him again, he couldn't help wanting to avoid the place he had been born. The sight of his mother's tears and his sibling's wide, hopeful eyes had been too much for him to bear already. How could he simply stroll over to visit them as easily as if he were headed to the Bronx for a poker game? No, it was better to stay in Brooklyn.  
  
I decided ta come ta Brooklyn and nevah ta turn back, Spot reminded himself. The sound of his cane gently tapping against the ground caused his mind to drift back to when he had stood at the edge of a precipice….  
  
~*~  
  
Ethan sipped at a steaming cup of tea, wishing it had been hot chocolate instead. His throat was still tight from holding back an exodus of tears so that no one- not his father, his mother, nor his siblings- could see his weakness. He knew he didn't have to retain that confident veneer for his grandfather, who was currently fixing Ethan a slice of soda bread, slathered with strawberry jam. Ethan had once sobbed into the folds of his grandfather's suit after receiving an unusually harsh verbal and physical assault from his father. Yet, even in the presence of the elderly gentleman, the young boy felt obligated to appear cool and detached.  
  
"Here you go," Alexander Williams said brightly as he handed Ethan the blue china plate. A yellow Labrador retriever was at his heels, gazing up at the plate with optimistic eyes. "Give a bit to Spot, too, or he'll whimper all day."  
  
The boy tore off a piece of the bread and held it to Spot's mouth. The dog licked the food from the boy's hand then nuzzled his nose into Ethan's palm as a sign of gratitude. Ethan had to grin at the friendly gesture and the scent of freshly baked soda bread.  
  
"Now," his grandfather began as he settled into his favorite chair (groaning faintly due to severe arthritis), gazing at Ethan and tapping his fingers absently against his gold-tipped cane, "you said you had come to a decision. What would that be?"  
  
Ethan adored the way his grandfather spoke, so eloquently and confidently. The boy felt proud to think that Alexander never spoke down to him or treated him as the 'good-for-nothing' his father constantly referred to him as. He cleared his throat as he sat up a bit taller in his chair. "I'm gonna join da newsies."  
  
Alexander blinked once, but betrayed neither surprise nor discouragement. "How did you come to this decision?" he inquired.  
  
"I wanna get out inta da woild and do somet'ing," he declared decisively, recalling the insulting names his father had lavished upon him. "I wanna make my own way. But I don't wanna join da Manhattan newsies. I'm gonna go ovah ta Brooklyn."  
  
His grandfather cleared his throat and tilted his head inquisitively. "Why Brooklyn, my dear boy?"  
  
"Well, from what I hoid, it's da best place ta sell. Da real newsies are all deah. I figuah I can make about a thousand dollahs by da time I'm ten, and den I can come back and take care of you and Mom and Jesse and Becca." He nodded emphatically and stared at his grandfather solemnly.  
  
"Not that I doubt your abilities in any way, but aren't newsies generally a bit older than you?" Alexander asked.  
  
He shrugged. "Ya gotta start somewheah. And I gotta start making somet'ing of myself, or else…" he trailed off pathetically, waiting for his grandfather to laugh outright and tell him he was a fool.  
  
Instead, the older man sighed lightly and removed his spectacles from his nose. Drawing his handkerchief from his pocket, he began to wipe them meticulously until they sparkled nearly as much as his own blue-green eyes. After what seemed like an eternity to Ethan, he looked up. "I realize how important this is to you, my boy. So I'm not going to stop you from going to Brooklyn. But I would like to tell you this before you go." He paused for a second, and Ethan leaned closer in his chair. "Never underestimate yourself, my boy. You're bound for great things."  
  
For a moment, Ethan felt as though he could take on the world. "Thanks, Granddad," he murmured.  
  
A small, kind smile spread across the elderly man's lips. "If you're so determined, you'd best take Spot with you. Who knows what you'll run into in Brooklyn?  
  
Spot tugged at his leash as he and Ethan marched through the unfamiliar streets of Brooklyn. A wave of fear had washed over the young boy when he had crossed the Brooklyn Bridge. Now, at the sight of so many strange people, Ethan felt the fierce desire to run back to his grandfather's home and munch on the remaining pieces of bread. Maybe I beddah jus' turn around right now, he thought apprehensively  
  
A fierce voice automatically echoed throughout his mind. "You lazy parasite! Get outta my way! I'd hand ya ovah ta da orphanage if I t'ought dey'd take a worthless troublemakah like you'se."  
  
Clutching the leash so tightly his knuckles paled, Ethan sped up his pace. "Come on, Spot. We'se almost deah," he firmly told his dog, who was darting happily between street vendors.  
  
The Brooklyn Lodging House, surrounded by seemingly enormous newsies all older than Ethan, finally came into view. The young boy's courage wavered only slightly. He drew a deep breath and marched over to the crowd gathered at the doorway, clenching his teeth when he realized the newsies were all studying him with mocking eyes.  
  
"Hey, fellahs," one blonde boy chuckled, "looks like one of da fishing boats left a shrimp on da docks."  
  
Ethan's frown deepened and his eyes flashed with anger as the Brooklyn newsies roared with laughter. "Who's in charge around heah?" he demanded rigidly, his confidence catching the attention of several newsies. "Who do I talk ta about joinin?"  
  
"Ya wanna join da Brooklyn newsies?" a tall girl asked incredulously.  
  
"Why else would I be heah?" he retorted hotly.  
  
Before the girl could reply, a tall young man with flaming red hair stepped to the front of the group. His slightly mocking gaze traveled from Ethan to Spot and back to the boy again. "I'se in charge around heah- name's Dublin," he announced solemnly. "Who's askin'?"  
  
Ethan gulped before answering. "Ethan…and Spot," he said, struggling to keep the essence of strength in his voice.  
  
A slow grin suffused across Dublin's attractive face. "Well, Spot," he said laughingly, "how old are ya? You'se barely tall enough ta meet my knee."  
  
"I'se five," Ethan responded confidently, ignoring the fact that he had just been referred to by his dog's name. He eyed the newsies smirking at him. "And someday I'm gonna be da greatest newsie in Brooklyn- in all of New York, even."  
  
Although this remark served to raise a few eyebrows and bring about a few chortles, Dublin couldn't help noticing the boy's interesting manner. He didn't seem to be merely confident; he appeared to not only honestly believe that someday he would be great, but would be willing to do anything to achieve his goal of greatness. Nodding his head towards the door, the Brooklyn leader laughed. "Come on in, Spot, and bring Ethan deah wid ya. You'se can sign up wid Gellar."  
  
Dis is it, the boy previously called Ethan thought in a combination of relief and anxiety as he took his first steps into his new home. No turnin' back now.  
  
As he trailed behind Dublin to the long, dust-encrusted counter, he felt it somehow fitting that he would have a new name. To Spot, it seemed as though it were a brief moment of rebirth….  
  
~*~  
  
Spot drowned in his memories as he stood in front of the Brooklyn Lodging House. Twisting the cane between his hands, he gazed at the only home he had known since that first day- the dull brick walls, the windows caked with grime, the sounds of friendly voices wafting from within. As he had vowed, he had become one of the most famous newsies to saunter the streets of New York. T'ings are great, he attempted to assure himself as he strode through the front door. Yet a faint, malicious voice resonated throughout his mind and shattered his calm thoughts:  
  
Decided ta drop by from wheah you'se all mighty in Brooklyn. Well, Brooklyn's shit, boy.  
  
"You okay, Spot?" Gellar's raspy, concerned voice brought the boy back to reality.  
  
"What do ya mean?"  
  
Over his newspaper Gellar's forehead furrowed in confusion. "It's just that for a split second you turned white as a ghost and shuddered like you was thrown into ice water."  
  
He swiftly shook his head and adopted his common aura of internal strength. "No, I'm fine," he replied indifferently. "Jus' a liddle cold outside tahnight, dat's all." Before Gellar could say another word, Spot bolted up the staircase that moaned like a poltergeist with each of his quick footsteps.  
  
The usual clamor was evident in the boy's bunkroom, as Smoke was demonstrating the proper way to roll a cigarette to a few of the younger newsies and as an uncommonly lucky Leap was beating Port in poker. Spot's body automatically hesitated before entering the room. He drew several deep breaths to gather his courage and attempted to adopt his confident demeanor, but found it quite difficult. What's da maddah wid me? he demanded silently, leaning against the wall. He closed his eyes and tried to bury his emotions, but images of his father remained. Memories of Spot's father screaming at him for no apparent reason, or coughing so hard that Spot had imagined his lungs would collapse, or lying still in a coffin, flashed through his mind.  
  
"Hey," a friendly voice piped up, shattering the Brooklyn leader's thoughts. He stood erect, his face like granite. Peach and Gull, having just exited the bunkroom, didn't appear to have noticed his momentary lapse in control. "We'se headed ovah ta Peg's for a liddle while. Wanna come?" suggested Gull breezily.  
  
Spot shook his head and murmured, "No, t'anks." He walked passed the duo and entered the room, not giving a backward glance to see the confusion firmly implanted on their faces.  
  
He did catch sight of the dozens of eyes casting him worried or inquisitive stares. I can't deal wid dis, he thought harshly and began to stalk through the crowd of newsies to his bed. Halfway there, however, he was intercepted by Wager, solemn concern illuminating his eyes.  
  
"Spot, I need ta talk ta ya about somet'ing," he began in a low whisper.  
  
The leader of the Brooklyn newsies shook his head and narrowed his eyes. "Wagah, can't dis wait 'till tahmarrah? I'll be sellin' den, so ya can talk all ya want. But right now ain't exactly da best time." Without waiting for a response, Spot pushed passed his second-in-command and marched towards his bed.  
  
Wager was immediately at his heels. "It's about Roxy."  
  
He paused and then turned slowly to face his fellow newsie. "What about her?" he asked worriedly.  
  
Seeing that he had Spot's utmost attention, Wager swiftly continued. "Da oddah day, when she was out sellin', Bulldog from da Deblah Street Lodgin' House attacked her." Spot opened his mouth to question about Roxy's well-being, but Wager- guessing beforehand what the inquiry would be- shook his head. "She's not dat hoit or anyt'ing- her arm's pretty bruised, but Smoke says it looks woise den it is- but she coulda been really hoit if Grin hadn't come along ta help her." He sighed lightly, as though in defeat. "Spot, ya know da Deblah Street newsies always wanted our territory. I don't t'ink dis is jus' gonna go away. More newsies could get hoit, or woise."  
  
Spot seemed as silent and solid as a marble statue. He paused for only a moment before replying, "Tell ev'rybody ta get a sellin' partnah tahmarrah, and ta spread out ovah da territory- I don't want any Deblah Street newsies walkin' around heah."  
  
The other newsie nodded solemnly, but as he watched Spot stride to his bunk, Wager predicted that things would never be the same in Brooklyn.  
  
*****  
  
The starlight was dim in Brooklyn that evening, hidden behind lacy cloud that drifted across the immense sky. The icy air bore the promise of winter and pierced Spot's unprotected hands, but he made no move to cover them. From his position on the fire escape, he stared up at the sky, listening to the sound of the breath spilling out into the air and forming clouds of silent thought.  
  
Even though he couldn't hear the soft snores and occasional murmurs of the newsies, he knew they were all fast asleep. It seemed as though tonight he wasn't able to afford such a luxury. Echoes of the past wafted around his mind like smoke.  
  
Never underestimate yourself, my boy. You're bound for great things.  
  
Decided ta drop by from wheah you'se all-mighty in Brooklyn. Well, Brooklyn's shit, boy.  
  
And someday I'm gonna be da greatest newsie in Brooklyn- in all of New Yawk, even.  
  
Spot scowled softly and leaned his head against the icy bricks behind him. Some greatness you'se got, Spot, a vicious voice snapped inside of him. What would your granddad t'ink of ya now? You'se not'ing but a newsie, a street urchin dat ain't nevah gonna be any beddah. Ya know who ya gonna end up like, right?  
  
"No," he told himself firmly, but the voice inside his mind continued slyly. Your faddah knew all along dat you'se was nevah gonna make it. He was right all dis time. Even now ya don't have not'ing. Da woild may see ya as 'da great Spot Conlon' but what is dat really? Ya can't even protect your own newsies- your friends- against assholes from Deblah Street.  
  
Although it pained Spot, he knew that was more right than he would have liked to admit. What did he honestly have in Brooklyn, anyway? He couldn't even stop a lousy so-called newsie from attacking one of his own. What could he possibly achieve as a newsie? What if his grandfather had been wrong and- more importantly- what if his father had been right?  
  
I can't let it happen like dat, he thought bleakly.  
  
For the first time, it seemed to Spot that he would have to leave Brooklyn. 


	4. Chapter 4

Dashing across the crowded streets of Brooklyn was no easy task at midday, just as gentlemen left their offices for lunch with extremely important clients in Manhattan and as young children picking pockets (nearly invisible in the crowds) swarmed about in hopes of procuring a quarter from an unsuspecting businessman. Roxy reached into her own pocket to feel for the change she had already earned that day and, satisfied that each coin was still there, she raced across the street. "Out of the way!" an elegant- looking but equally irritated driver bellowed at the newsgirl as she bolted through the path of a luxurious carriage, which could have crushed her entire body in an instant. With a barely audible sigh of relief, she leapt to the sidewalk and mentally cursed the poor headlines.  
  
"What's wid ya tahday, Roxy?" Mist asked with a curious tilt of her head. "Your mind's all ovah da place."  
  
The chestnut-haired girl shrugged helplessly. "I dunno. I must not have gotten enough sleep last night or something."  
  
"Is your arm botherin' ya? I don't care what Smoke said; it looks pretty bad ta me."  
  
At the memory of Bulldog and the brick wall, Roxy winced silently. However, she shook her head at her friend and forced a smile. "It's fine, really. I've had much worse."  
  
Mist bit at the corner of her lower lip as she considered the truth of the newsgirl's statement. "Well…" she finally murmured, sounding only half-convinced, "all right. But maybe we'se should break for lunch early tahday. And if deah's a sign of trouble, be careful."  
  
"Well, my plans did involve hurling myself off of the Brooklyn Bridge, but since you asked so nicely…" she replied somewhat facetiously.  
  
"Hey, I'se jus' lookin' out for ya," Mist commented sincerely and solemnly, then turned away to lift a paper high into the air. "Millionaire runs away ta da Berkshires! Family claims insanity!" she cried to the masses.  
  
Roxy's eyes were focused on the front page of one of her papers, making it appear as though she were intently scanning the headlines for a deliciously scandalous article, or at least one she could embellish. At that moment, however, her mind was a thousand miles from Brooklyn. Slightly smudged black letters began to swirl together as thoughts clouded her eyes.  
  
So Spot's doing something in Manhattan…although I have no idea what or why. He rarely goes there, even to visit Jack. And even though he's selling again today, he still doesn't seem like himself. Usually he'd be flirting with all of the girls and competing with Duck for the title of best aim with a slingshot. He's barely said anything to anyone for days, except this morning…  
  
She had been rushing about the girls' bunkroom in a sleepy haze, attempting to find a stray pair of shoelaces while politely listening to Rabbit's weekly lament of boyfriends (who always seemed so perfect for her until she actually began to date them). It seemed to be a bad morning for the other Brooklyn girls as well. Leap insisted that Peach had lost her hairbrush; Stormy stomped around, mumbling about how "all men are pigs," and glaring at even the most innocent of newsboys; and Imp, the youngest and fiercest newsgirl, had bitten Cardinal on the thigh when the redhead had attempted to brush out Imp's mass of ebony tangles. Roxy hadn't even noticed that Spot had entered the bunkroom (it was rather difficult to hear footsteps with Rabbit moaning, Stormy grumbling, and Cardinal shrieking) until he stood before her.  
  
"Hey," he greeted her, taking a seat on the bunk across from Roxy's. "Wagah told me about what happened da oddah day. Ya okay?"  
  
Roxy blinked, surprised that Spot had mentioned it when he had seemed so distracted lately. "Um, yeah, it's nothing, really. I mean, it wasn't exactly the thrill of my life to have been slammed into a brick wall, but it could've been worse. Grin was great; I'm really glad he showed up."  
  
Spot nodded solemnly, although his eyes were on the floor rather than the newsgirl. "Yeah. Let me know if anyt'ing else happens, all right?"  
  
"Sure," Roxy murmured, unable to contain a slightly bewildered tone. She watched the leader of the Brooklyn newsies rise slowly, almost unwillingly, to his feet and stride towards the door. He was about to step through the doorway when he turned on his heel to face the newsgirl once again.  
  
"Roxy?" he said so softly that she had to strain to hear him over the dulled chatter of the bunkroom.  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
An emotion Roxy could not identify swelled in the air between them. "Nothin'; nevah mind." With that, Spot whirled around and marched out of the room before she even had the opportunity to say good-bye.  
  
She had sat there for quite a while, staring at the empty doorframe and wondering what Spot could have wanted to say to her. Finally, Leap's cries that she was 'moving slower than molasses uphill in January and would be lucky if she even got crumbs for breakfast,' served to return Roxy to reality. She followed her fellow newsgirls out of the lodging house with a mind saturated with questions and a stomach twisting into an anxious, painful knot.  
  
"Hey," Mist's suspicious voice angrily interjected into Roxy's thoughts, returning the girl to the sidewalks of Brooklyn, "check out da next cornah."  
  
She followed her friend's gaze to see two other newsies, one male and one female, standing several feet away. On any other occasion, they would have melted into the crowd of governesses with strollers and Italian workmen dotted with perspiration. But Roxy's eyes immediately narrowed at the sight while her knuckles whitened as she gripped her newspapers. The smugly grinning newsies were Cotton and Swing of the Debler Street Lodging House.  
  
Automatically, both Mist and Roxy extracted their slingshots from their back pockets. Mist nodded towards the duo as she remarked, "I'll take Swing and you'se get Cotton. And be careful."  
  
Roxy could not contain a scowl. Rolling her eyes petulantly, she wondered if anyone would ever stop thinking of her as the weakest member of the Brooklyn Lodging House. "You too," she replied, more out of irritation than of concern. Before her friend could even reply, Roxy darted into the streets, receiving the disgruntled glare of those she pushed passed.  
  
"…ten times beddah den da crowds at Deblah," Swing commented to his companion as he scanned the scene before him. "Imagine how much we'll make when we'se da ones who own dis territory."  
  
"Steak and lobstah for dinnah ev'ry night," Cotton declared with an arrogant grin. "Ya know, da only reason why da Brooklyn newsies are so great is 'cause of da area. We'se gonna be doin' even beddah when we get deir location."  
  
"Da only t'ing dat's been keepin' us away for so long is Spot." He shrugged indifferently.  
  
She nodded. "And widout Spot ta worry about-" she was replying when Swing yelled out in pain. His newspapers fell to a puddle of mud in the gutter as he reached up to his reddening temple.  
  
"What da hell?!" he cried, his face becoming a color similar to his temple, although for a very different reason.  
  
"I always knew da Deblah Street newsies was stupid," Mist mentioned casually as she and Roxy stepped out of the crowds, their slingshots drawn back and aimed at their enemies' faces. "I jus' nevah knew dat it'd take more den one beatin' ta get somet'ing simple t'rough you'se skull."  
  
Swing and Cotton glanced anxiously at each other, bemoaning the fact that they had trekked so deeply into Spot's territory and wishing that they possessed similar weapons. Casting each other simultaneous nods, they turned on their heels and dashed down the sidewalks in opposite directions.  
  
Before they could even converse, Roxy and Mist had both bolted after the respective newsies. I hope Mist catches him, Roxy aimlessly thought as she trailed the female Debler Street newsie, dodging appalled pedestrians and irritated vendors. Grinning to herself, she continued, He'd better hope otherwise! Discounting Roxy, the Brooklyn girls were infamously good fighters, and Mist (despite her practical and prudent nature) was one of the best.  
  
Within minutes, Cotton had led Roxy to the edge of Spot's territory, where unkempt tenements loomed and the potent stenches of rotting beef and uncollected garbage pierced the air. The brunette newsgirl's heart pounded madly against her chest and her breaths came in quick, broken intervals, but her feet automatically pushed her forward.  
  
Cotton, who was still several feet in front of Roxy at the time, ducked behind a cart filled with wilted cabbages and into a desolate alley. Roxy had turned the corner, attempting to follow the girl, when she found herself sprawled on the grimy pavement, her face burning in pain. The sound of a piece of wood tossed to the ground echoed in the alley, followed by footsteps sprinting away.  
  
What am I, the Debler Street newsies' official punching bag? Roxy wondered as she rubbed her nose (thankfully not broken, although blood had started to trickle) and lifted herself off of the ground. Slingshot poised, she cautiously peaked into the alley before stepping forward.  
  
Empty. Okay, so now what? She peered down into the dank, shadowed depths of the alley. Several dented trash cans squatted against a tall wooden fence. Wiry cats with suspicious eyes skulked in between the piles of garbage in hopes of discovering a fat, unsuspecting mouse. The pieces of a broken wooden crate (one of which Roxy supposed that Cotton had used to hit the Brooklyn newsgirl's face) were strewn by her rise. Glancing back at the fence, Roxy pursed her lips. I wonder…  
  
Ignoring the throbbing pain in her nose, she rushed towards the fence and lifted herself up on the sturdiest trashcan she could find. Carefully, she gazed over the wall and into the next alley, where, in the distance, she caught sight of the silhouette of a running girl. Her better judgment pleading otherwise, she quietly climbed over the fence and trailed the Debler Street newsie like a shadow.  
  
So maybe this isn't the best idea I've ever had, Roxy remarked as she ducked behind the stoop of an apartment building to avoid Cotton's suspicious gaze of her surroundings. I'm in unfamiliar territory, and there are a lot more of them than there are of me. Not to mention that I probably couldn't take them even if I weren't so vastly outnumbered.  
  
Cotton, feeling particularly confident that she had successfully lost Roxy (if not seriously injured her), sauntered casually back to the Debler Street Lodging House. She was met by the grim, rough countenances of her fellow newsies, who were all seated on the building's front steps, and the dark, malicious eyes of Jackal. From behind a nearby cart of slightly stale fruit and vegetables, Roxy held her breath and strained to hear their conversation.  
  
"Heya, Cotton," Jackal drawled slowly, as though he considered each word carefully before he spoke.  
  
Under the cold stares of the newsies, she apprehensively twisted her long hair around her finger. "Heya, Jackal, guys…so's da aftahnoon pape ready?"  
  
Jackal didn't respond, only moved to rose from his position on the stairs. He moved slowly, deliberately, towards Cotton, who suddenly seemed fascinated by the hole in her right boot. His bloodless lips were set in such a thin, straight line that they seemed almost nonexistent. Roxy unconsciously shuddered at the image of what seemed to be the mouth of a living corpse.  
  
"So, ya went inta Spot's territory tahday, huh, Cotton?" he prompted with a seemingly pleasant voice.  
  
"Um, yeah…" she murmured, momentarily gazing at her friends for help. Their callous expressions remained unchanged. "Me and Swing went. Real good crowds down deah."  
  
Before she could continue in her high-pitched, anxious tone, Jackal reached back and smacked her smartly on the side of the head. His eyes had become dangerous slits and he breathed hard as he glowered at the wincing girl before him. "Now listen ta me," he hissed sharply. Vaguely, Roxy thought that a more fitting nickname for the leader of the Debler Street newsies would be Viper. "Ya don't go ta deir territory unless I say so. I don't care how great da crowds are ovah deah. We ain't gonna get dat unless ya start wisin' up and listenin' ta me."  
  
"But…but I t'ought dat…ya wanted us ta get inta Spot's territory so-" she squeaked.  
  
"So we ain't gonna get Spot's territory if ya keep doin' stupid t'ings like dat," he growled in interruption. "Of coise I said for some of us ta sneak inta deir turf. Guys like Bulldog and Dash, who can find out t'ings widout gettin' chased away by some Brooklyn bitches." Roxy's frown deepened at the insult, and recalled how Bulldog had been 'chased away' only a few days prior. "If ya start jus' waltzin' inta deir territory, dey're gonna wise up befoah we'se ready and we'll nevah get da bedda area. We gotta wait until Spot's completely lost it- maybe even when he's run outta his own lodgin' house- befoah we can get rid of da Brooklyn newsies and finally take what we desoive." His eyes narrowed and his tone dropped dangerous. "Do ya wanna be stuck heah forevah?"  
  
Cotton gulped. "No," she spat out."  
  
Raising his chin assuredly, Jack took a small step backwards. "Good. Don't forget dat, or next time it'll be far woise." He turned swiftly on his heel and cast a cold glance at the other newsies before marching into the lodging house. Instead of slamming shut, the door swung to a quiet close behind him, as though to emphasize the complete power he held over the others.  
  
Heart pounding, Roxy became a statue as she watched the Debler Street newsies sluggishly follow their leader inside. So that's it, she thought grimly. They don't just want our territory;, they want us completely gone. A chill wind enveloped the girl as she wondered what methods would Jackal use to obtain his goal. 


	5. Chapter 5

Spot was thankful for his position as leader of the Brooklyn newsies that afternoon. While the others had paired up compliant with his orders, no one had challenged his solo figure as it marched into the morning crowds. Usually he would not have minded a selling partner; he often brought along younger newsies to show them the ropes or invited a friend simply for company. Today, however, he felt grateful that he had the opportunity to sell without outside distraction.  
  
"Mayah flees City Hall in terror!" he called to the masses, waving a newspaper at arm's length above his head. "Panic in Manhattan!"  
  
He barely noticed the shocked faces of those he sold papers to. Although his hands moved deftly to exchange newspapers for coin, his mind had wandered far from his task. The ghost of a voice pierced his brain like a needle.  
  
"Are ya gonna come home wid us, Ethan?"  
  
Home. How could he possibly face them now? Images of his mother and siblings- all looking so despondent and expectant- flashed behind his eyelids. What had he ever given them besides a few dollars a month? He could almost feel Lily's thin arms encircling his waist as she silently pleaded for a kind of help that he had not been able to give.  
  
Able? he thought with an audible scoff. Jus' not willin'. I couldn't even face my own faddah until he was dyin' and even den I could barely take it. Yeah, I'se da intimidatin', brave Spot Conlon.  
  
He shook his head. What could he possibly give them now when he hadn't even been strong enough to confront his father only a few days prior?  
  
"Um," an unfamiliar voice interjected into Spot's thoughts, "you there. Pardon."  
  
Spot immediately tensed and adopted his common aura of power. A young man of roughly sixteen years of age stood a few feet away. He wore elegant dark gray attire, boots that shined in the dull sunlight, and a slightly bewildered but polite expression. Under his arm he carried several leather- bound books, most likely the complete sonnets of Shakespeare or the history of Ancient Greek civilization. His dark blonde hair was cut to the strict dictates of fashion. He was well built, as though he was comfortable with the physical exertions of a good baseball game but would never have to worry about growing prematurely weak under the stress of factory work.  
  
When the Brooklyn newsie's stony eyes bore into his, the young man continued, "I was hoping to buy a paper. Sounds like an interesting article."  
  
"Yeah," Spot mumbled as his frown deepened. "Heah."  
  
"I…ah, thank you," the young man replied, somewhat taken back by the newsie's intimidating and cold demeanor. He placed a penny into Spot's palm and rushed down the sidewalk, no doubt to a small café in which he could discuss the politics of European countries or laissez-faire economics.  
  
Spot's fingers tightened around his cane until his knuckles turned as white as chalk. The young man had not been condescending or impolite in any way, as others of his class had often been. In fact, Spot felt that had the boy been a newsie, they might have been close friends. Yet he couldn't quell the hatred that dripped into his heart like burning liquor. He found himself imagining that young man graduating from Harvard, taking over the family law firm, and gaining the respect of his family and peers. Perhaps one day that boy would have newspaper articles written about his triumphs in law or business or whatever field he chose to pursue. He stared at the boy's retreating figure until it disappeared into the crowd; and he could not stop hating.  
  
A faint voice of reason rebuked him. Come on, Spot, get it tahgethah. Ya can't go crazy ovah some kid who ya don't know not'ing about.  
  
His fingers began to relax and he focused on the slightly smudged headlines of a newspaper. The words swirled and blurred beneath his hands. When a familiar voice whispered gently in his ear, he whirled around in shock, expecting to see a man standing behind him.  
  
Of course, he found only strangers marching passed, no one who would care to converse with a newsboy unless they wished to a buy a paper. Spot blinked and drew a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. Jesus, Spot, no wondah ya can't handle you'se own lodgin' house, he thought caustically. Yet even with this remark, he could not deny the voice he was sure he had heard:  
  
"Never underestimate yourself, my boy. You're bound for great things."  
  
In his surprise, Spot had dropped his stack of newspapers onto the sidewalk. They still lay at his feet when another voice interrupted his thoughts.  
  
"Hey, kid, ya okay?"  
  
Spot glanced up to see an elderly man studying him in concern. He appeared to be one of the dockworkers, perhaps a position he had held for his entire life. His clothing was shabby and stained in several places with slick oil. He bore the potent aroma of the sea and dead fish. What hair the man had was disheveled and white as snow, while his eyes were a brilliant shade of green. His face was tanned and wizened, like leather that was prematurely showing its age due to years of misuse. The man chuckled lightly in an attempt to mollify the situation. "Prob'ly t'inkin' of some pretty goil, right?"  
  
Groaning faintly, the man began to bend over to retrieve the fallen papers but Spot, regaining his senses, beat him to it. "T'anks, mistah. Sorry 'bout dat," the Brooklyn leader found himself saying, losing his appearance of utter control and strength for a moment.  
  
"Don't mention it," the man replied. He nodded and gave a pleasant smile before sauntering off in the direction of the docks.  
  
Spot watched the man as he strolled away and his heart seemed to contract in his chest. Is dat all deah is for me? Years of hard woik and determination and not'in ta show for it? He sighed heavily. I gotta get outta Brooklyn, fast.  
  
"Spot!" The boy turned at his named to find Roxy sprinting towards him, calling out apologizes to those she hit as she ran. She hunched over and gasped for breath when she reached him, her cheeks stained as bright a red as the blood that dripped from her nose.  
  
"Roxy, what's da maddah?" he inquired worriedly as he pulled the girl out of the flow of traffic. When they were safely in an alley, he extracted a threadbare handkerchief out of his pocket and offered it to her. "What happened? Was it Bulldog again?"  
  
Holding the handkerchief to her nose, she shook her head. "Not exactly," she replied through the veil of worn cotton. "It was the Debler Street newsies, but it wasn't specifically Bulldog…well, it's kind of a long story." She swiftly related the tale of how she and Rabbit had discovered two Debler Street newsies in Spot's territory, and how she had followed Cotton back to the other lodging house in Brooklyn. "…and I don't think they're going to wait around much longer. They're getting stronger and more persistent, Spot. Jackal's insane and malicious, and I don't think we can afford to just wait around and find out what he's got planned."  
  
"Ya heah anyt'ing specific?" he wanted to know.  
  
She sighed. "Just that they plan on getting rid of us and taking over our territory. He said they're waiting until-" She caught the words in her throat and coughed embarrassedly. "Until we don't suspect they're going to do anything. To catch us off guard. Smooth, Roxy, real smooth, she berated herself inwardly. Why don't you just tell him that everyone, even Jackal, knows he's losing it?  
  
Spot crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against a convenient brick wall. He studied the streets solemnly, watching elderly ladies in black satin, small boys bearing wooden swords, and middle-aged men wearing their stress around their eyes walk passed. He recalled what his father had said about Brooklyn the last time they met. Decided ta drop by from wheah you'se all-mighty in Brooklyn. Well, Brooklyn's shit, boy. The words gnawed at Spot's brain. This was where he had ruled uncontested since he was fifteen and had assumed leadership of the Brooklyn newsies, the most renowned newsies in New York. And now ya can't even handle one damn group of vultuahs. No wondah you'se faddah always said ya wasn't woith not'ing.  
  
"Spot?" Roxy asked so softly that her voice was practically lost among the din of the sidewalks.  
  
Standing erect, the newsboy adopted more of an unemotional, controlled demeanor than usual. "Get back ta da lodgin' house and clean up, and den spread da woid ta be on da lookout for da Deblah Street newsies tahday. We'll talk more latah tahnight."  
  
The girl nodded soberly. "Okay. I'll see you later, then." She moved to dash into the crowds, but halted for a moment. She gazed at Spot with concern, fear, and another emotion he couldn't name illuminating her eyes. "Be careful, okay?"  
  
His body went rigid and his eyes seemed like shards of ice. "Doubtin' my ability ta take care of myself?" he demanded harshly.  
  
"No," she replied quietly, taken back by his tone. "It's just that you're alone today." She opened her mouth, as if to elaborate, but then fell silent. Without even a word of good-bye, she rushed off and in a moment had completely vanished in the sea of bodies.  
  
Spot did not watch her go. He slumped back against the wall, pushing a hand through his unkempt tresses. For once it seemed that the famed leader of the Brooklyn Lodging House had absolutely no idea what his course of action would be.  
  
"Queens ovah tens," Itey declared triumphantly as he tossed his cards to the floor of the boys' bunkroom. Pulling a small pile of coins to his side, he laughed and shrugged. "Must be my night."  
  
"I can't believe dis," Racetrack moaned. "All my winnin's at da track gone in less den two minutes."  
  
"Look at it this way," Midnight replied as she shuffled the deck of faded cards. "That's more than two minutes than you usually get." She winked and began to deal the cards to the rather large group of players that had gathered in the bunkroom that evening.  
  
Racetrack raised an eyebrow. "Bright side ta everyt'ing, huh?" At the sight of his new hand, his expression brightened considerably. "I'm in," he remarked cheerfully.  
  
Soon it was down to Itey and Racetrack. They stared at each other with stoic countenances as the pile of coins grew. "Okay," Racetrack said and drew a deep breath as though for luck. He slapped down his cards. "Full house, kings ovah queens. Beat dat." Glancing at the other members of the poker game, he smirked victoriously.  
  
Itey whistled and sighed lightly. "Good hand, Race; best one ya had all night." A smile suffused across his lips as Racetrack reached for the coins. "Not good enough, of coise, but still pretty good." He tossed his hand to the floor, revealing four sixes.  
  
The other newsboy's mouth dropped to his knees. While Itey dragged yet more coins over to his rather large pile, Racetrack glowered at his own cards and grumbled several unprintable phrases.  
  
"I can't believe it," Pocket exclaimed incredulously. "Ya gotta be cheatin' or somet'ing. Lemme see dose cahds."  
  
As she reached to grab Itey's hand, an ace of spades slipped out of her sleeve and fluttered delicately to the floor. The newsies glared at the girl and she chuckled nervously. Then, holding her palms up defensively and adopting a contemptuous expression, she said, "Oh, and I'm really winnin' anyway."  
  
Racetrack pulled the girl's dark gray cap over his face. Laughing, he then turned to a nearby bunk and shouted, "Hey, Jack! Ya wanna join da game?" When he didn't receive any answer- consenting or not- his eyes narrowed slightly in confusion. "Hey, Jack!" he repeated. "Ya awake?"  
  
"Huh?" came a distant reply. "Oh, no t'anks, Race."  
  
Pocket turned to a slightly befuddled Racetrack and shrugged. "Must be a date wid Sarah tahnight," she invented as she began to shuffle the cards with professional speed. "Maybe dey're goin' somewheah real fancy tahnight, like da Waldorph, and dey're gonna dress up real nice- Jack's gonna have a white bowtie and tails and Sarah's gonna be drippin' in diamonds- and dey'll eat caviah and guzzle champagne like dey's drinkin' sarsaparilla. But, see, Jack has ta t'ink of a plan ta get in and make da waitahs t'ink he's da son of a railroad tycoon, so…"  
  
Had Jack heard the elaborate story involving stolen laundry, an attacked butler, and formal stationary, he would have laughed and promised to tell Sarah about it the next time they met. That evening, however, Jack's mind was saturated with solemn thoughts and memories.  
  
Maybe I shoulda told Wagah and Roxy about Spot's family heah…about why he left Manhattan and why he sometimes comes back, he mused and silently sighed. Aftah all, if Spot's really dat bad, dey got a right ta know why; and from what I hoid, he really is dat bad.  
  
Scoffing lightly, he rolled his eyes. Who am I ta tell 'em about deir own leadah's past? It ain't like we'se even in da same lodgin' house or not'ing. Sure, t'ings are beddah now den befoah da strike…but would dey even believe me anyway?  
  
For a moment he studied the laughing group of card players. Who da hell am I ta talk? I nevah even told any of dem about my parents. Off lookin' for a ranch- hard ta find one when you'se behind bars for the rest of you'se life or six feet undah. With a swift glance towards his fellow newsies, he reached deep into his pocket and pulled out the worn copy of his Western Jim comic. Although the colors had faded considerably since he had first bought it and the edges had softened and torn due to age, Jack still felt a rush of excitement at the thought of the open plains. Who can blame him for not wantin' ta be around heah, especially aftah all dat happened wid his faddah? But still, maybe I outta let 'em know…  
  
Quickly, he shoved the paper back into his pocket, where it would remain safely out of sight. Jack heaved a silent sigh of relief when he saw Mush strolling over. Jus' in time, he thought.  
  
"Heya, Jack," the other newsboy greeted, laughing lightly. "Wanna head ovah ta Medda's tahnight? New show. Dave and Violet already said dey'd come."  
  
Jack cleared his throat as he leapt to his feet. "Yeah, sure," he said casually and reached for his faithful hat. As he followed Mush out of the boys' bunkroom, he frowned and thought that perhaps it would be better to stay out of Brooklyn.  
  
An icy, damp fog was crawling into Brooklyn. Grin turned up the collar of his threadbare jacket against the slight wind that bit at his neck. He scowled noisily at the two papers tucked under his arm and gazed down the nearly empty streets. Of coise, he mumbled to himself, ev'rybody's on deir way home except me. Who wants ta buy a pape in dis weadah anyway?  
  
He caught sight of a middle-aged couple strolling home and thrust one of his papers high into the air. "President caught in foreign scandal! Pictuahs on page nine!" The article (which was actually about the president's visit to England) did not seem to impress the couple; the passed by Grin without even the slightest glance in his direction. As they sauntered farther down the sidewalk, the newsboy spat angrily into the gutter.  
  
"Cheapskates," he muttered as his frown deepened.  
  
The fog was getting much thicker now. Grin gazed down the street in both directions, hoping to see someone searching out a newsie for the final newspaper in Brooklyn. Luck, however, didn't seem to be on his side that night. He scowled again and began to march down the street, heading back to the lodging house in hopes of selling his papers on the way there.  
  
Maybe I outta take a diff'rent approach ta da whole t'ing, he pondered. It'd be cheap stuff ta burn, especially on a cold night like dis. And besides, who really wants ta read an article about da pres-  
  
Thoughts of selling his last papers rushed from his mind as a large hand grasped his throat and pushed him against a brick wall. Gasping for air, Grin squinted to see his attacker- several attackers, in fact. Bulldog's face was nearly pressed to his so that the Brooklyn newsie detected the potent aromas of cheap whiskey and perspiration. Grin vaguely wondered if he would pass out from the mere smell before the massive newsboy had a chance to pummel him.  
  
"Let…go…ya dirty…bastard…" Grin ordered with as much force as he could muster as he struggled to breath and tried to pry Bulldog's seemingly unyielding fingers off of his throat.  
  
"Yeah, and maybe we can all get tea tagethah aftah," Dash drawled laughingly from behind Bulldog.  
  
The Brooklyn newsboy glared at five of the Debler Street newsies. "Get outta…Spot's territory," he gasped.  
  
"Sure t'ing, Grin," a disembodied voice, which chilled Grin's blood more than the wind did, wafted delicate to the group. "But da t'ing is, dis ain't gonna be Spot's territory for much longah." A figure emerged from within the icy fog, moving slowly and awkwardly but deliberately towards the cluster of newsies. Jackal's bloodless lips were curved into a malicious grin and his intense eyes boring into Grin's flesh.  
  
Grin's eyes illuminated with fury. "Is dis da way…ya gotta…take us? Gang up…and attack us…when we'se ain't…lookin'?"  
  
"You'se ain't exactly in a position ta be insultin' us," the Debler Street leader replied with calm satisfaction. He nodded to Bulldog, who chuckled maniacally as his grip tightened a bit more. At Grin's silence, Jackal nodded complacently.  
  
"I'd like ta t'ink of your position right now as what's already startin' ta happen ta Spot's newsies." A smirk suffused across his mouth and he laughed humorlessly. "I know dat Spot's losin' it. Soon, you'se newsies are gonna be widout da leadahship dat protected ya and your territory all dese years. And unless ya give us dis territory right away, you'se are all gonna wish ya was nevah even born."  
  
The Brooklyn newsie's eyes became slits as he glowered at Jackal. "You'se a…biggah…coward…den I t'ought," he murmured faintly and without fear of the hand encircling his throat.  
  
Grin was surprised to see the faintest traces of crimson spread across Jackal's pale flesh. His eyes seemed to follow suit, as red veins flashed in contrast to the pale gray of his irises. His body tensed and he seemed to automatically lean forward, like a large jungle cat preparing to lunge; but then he seemed to regain control. With a twist of his thin lips, Jackal said, "Go ahead, boys. Let's send a liddle message ta Brooklyn."  
  
The voices of the Debler Street newsies rose in a chorus of vicious laughter. Bulldog's hand remained firmly clenched on Grin's neck as Fist strolled over, slipping a pair of bloodied brass knuckles onto his right hand.  
  
"Say you'se prayahs, Grin," Fist drawled as he slowly drew his arm back. The brass gleamed in the dull glow of the gaslights. Grin fought to keep his eyes from widening and his face from blanching to match Jackal's.  
  
The Brooklyn newsboy was still struggling to break free of Bulldog's grasp when he felt his head split in two and darkness rush into his brain.  
  
To be continued… 


	6. Chapter 6

            The dark silhouettes of two newsies huddled together against the cold were barely visible through the thick fog. They seemed to be the last two people on the sidewalks that evening, save the homeless children who clustered together in the corners of alleys and the occasional policeman who whistled absently as he strolled. The newsies spoke quietly as they moved, intent on their direction and imagining the mugs of hot coffee that might await them.

            "Cold?" Duck inquired as Stormy blew into her cupped hands.

            She cast him an irritated stare. "No, I'se jus' shiverin' for fun."

            "Ye know," he commented casually," I don't think that Spot had te worry about _everybody pairin' up; the Debler Street newsies wouldn't attack ye, if they knew what was good for 'em."_

            Stormy adopted an affronted expression. "Are ya suggestin' dat I'm ovahly emotional or aggressive?"

            "No, jus' that ye're absolutely insane."

            She was prepared to reply that she was perfectly sensible and only reacted in a hostile manner when provoked by stupid questions. However, she had only opened her mouth when she found herself sprawled on the sidewalk, her pants torn at the knee and her palms sliced by pebbles.

            "Are ye all right?" her companion inquired with a wry grin. "My looks and charm finally got the better of ye?"

            "I'se fine," she mumbled embarrassedly as she swiftly rose to her feet. Surveying the slight damage, she brushed her bloodied hands off on her corduroy pants. "Some'ting tripped me." She scowled and drew her leg back to kick whatever had been in her way- an old crate or piece of garbage, she assumed.

            Duck stared at the ground, trying to see through the thick fog, and his eyes widened to the size of soup tureens. "Stormy, wait!" he exclaimed and yanked the girl backwards by her suspenders, causing her kick to miss its mark.

            "What's you'se problem?" she demanded, eyes narrowing.

            The newsboy ignored her question and instead knelt on the pavement. He reached into his pocket, finding a slightly damp match that otherwise would have been put to use lighting a cigarette later that evening. He struck the match, which sputtered into a flame and gave off the faintest glimmer of lights. It only served to illuminate the obstacle for a moment before burning down to Duck's fingertips (he cursed, though the phrase was practically incoherent through the Irish accent that thickened with anger); a moment, however, was all that was necessary to pale both newsies.

            "Oh, God," Stormy muttered and clutched her stomach for fear of its reaction to the sight of Grin's still body. The newsboy was barely recognizable. Long gashes stretched across his face, which was stained crimson, while his eyes were blackened and sunken in. Bruises and cuts decorated his unusually pale skin. A streak of red in his hair was as vibrant as Cardinal's tresses. His clothing was torn and his leg was twisted at an unnatural angle.

            Hands shaking despite efforts to control them, Duck reached forward to press his fingers against Grin's neck. "Hey," he said with forced cheerfulness, "he's still there. He's still breathin', jus' real faint."

            The newsgirl vaguely wondered how anything so abused could still be alive. "Let's get him to da lodgin' house- Gellar'll know wheah ta find da doctah."

            Duck nodded solemnly as he slid his hand behind Grin's nape and under his knees. "Come on, help me carry him. We haven't got much time."

            Spot stalked the sidewalks on his way back to the lodging house, hands stuffed in his pockets and shoulders hunched against the occasional gust of icy wind. Fog enveloped him like the cloud of thought he had been suffocated by for the last several hours. His stomach churned as he considered the decision he had come to at last.

            _Wagah'll be a good leadah, he assured himself. __He's faih, loyal, and knows what ta do in a tough situation. And it ain't like he's been gettin' no practice lately. Spot's train of thought was broken when the gentle tapping of his cane against the street distracted him. __And he ain't got nobody dependin' on him._

            He scowled and swung his cane as though to hit an oncoming attacker. _What do dey expect of me, anyway? Dublin and Gospel and Reason and all da oddah Brooklyn leadahs left sometime. Dey can't t'ink I'm gonna stay around heah forevah._

            He was so immersed in his thoughts as he approached the familiar lodging house that he didn't notice the uncommon quiet that had shrouded the building. Drawing a deep breath and mentally rehearsing what he'd say to Wager, he rushed through the doorway with the wind wailing at his back.

            "Heya Gellar," he muttered, distracted as he started to march towards the staircase. Halfway there, however, he halted in his tracks at the high-pitched voice that had greeted him in response.

            "Imp," he said and took a step towards the counter, which dwarfed the small girl behind it. "Wheah's Gellar?"

            She blinked at him for a moment. "Upstairs," she mumbled while biting the end of a pencil. "I'm checkin' ev'rybody in instead."

            "Why?" he grilled.

            She shrugged. "I dunno. I was jus' comin' in when he was talkin' wid Roxy, and dey looked at me and he told me ta stay heah and make shoah dat ev'rybody comes in- ya know, like he usually does. Den dey ran upstaihs and ain't been down since. It's real borin'."

            He eyed her soberly for a moment, wondering what could have caused Gellar (whose feet seemed permanently adhered to the floor behind the counter) to leave his nightly chore. "T'anks, kid," he replied and dashed up the staircase that moaned with each step he took.

            Solemn murmurs, rather than the typical spirited conversations, were emitted from the boys' bunkroom. No one was hurrying in, excited to relate an exaggerated tale of that morning's misadventure. The floorboards creaked softly as those in the bunkroom moved with caution. The air bore the potent aromas of perspiration, various medicines, and blood. Spot's face was grave as he stepped into the room, causing the congregation of newsies gathered around a single bed to turn.

            "What happened?" he demanded, his tone identical to his countenance. When no one offered an answer, he walked to the bed, newsies carefully stepping out of his way as though he were Moses parting the waters.

            Spot's stomach gripped violently when he gazed upon Grin's still body. Through all the years he had been a newsboy, he had never seen anyone beaten this badly. He could barely make out his friend's familiar features through the dark bruises and soiled bandages that covered his skin. Spot's knuckles matched Grin's sickly pale flesh as his fingers tightened around his cane.

            "He…well…Duck and Stormy," Roxy began by way of explanation, "they found him in an alley on their way back here. Gellar got a doctor- a friend of his- to come. He's lucky to be alive…that's what the doctor said. Even now, he might…I mean, he's lost a lot of blood and…"

            She didn't finish and Spot was grateful. "Who did dis?" he asked, his voice barely audible and colder than the wind that howled outside.

            "We don't know for sure. We think it could be the…the Debler Street newsies."

            "He was the only one sellin' widout a partnah tahday," Retriever spoke up, sounding choked. "Da message didn't get around ta him; he was tryin' ta find dis goil he's been talking' about, so he wasn't in his usual sellin' spot."

            Spot absently wondered if he was going to be ill. _I let dis happen, he thought grimly as he gazed at the frighteningly lifeless body. He recalled years prior, when he had been a young newsboy with Grin, running wildly through the streets of Brooklyn and screaming out the headlines at the tops of their lungs. Spot's face drained of color as he imagined Jesse, his own younger brother, acting in a similar fashion and unwittingly growing up to face the same dangers. Spot closed his eyes, unable to look at his friend's broken features any longer, but the image was branded behind his eyes._

*****

            For the second time in four days, Spot woke far earlier than any of the other Brooklyn newsies. He was thankful that the fog hadn't lifted to reveal the moon, as his figure was nearly invisible in the darkened bunkroom. Instead of seeing objects around him, he moved according to memory and intuition. His fingers automatically curled around the meager amount of belongings he had acquired over the years- his cap, an extra shirt, a deck of cards, his slingshot, and a tattered, weather-beaten dog collar. An entire lifetime fit inside a threadbare pillowcase.

            When all of his possessions were carefully tucked away, he reached into his pocket and extracted a scrap of paper torn from the afternoon edition. Over a short article about a debutante ball in Manhattan, he had written a few slightly smudged sentences to Wager. He knew that when Gellar stomped up the stairs that morning, yelling that the newsies were wasting perfectly good daylight, Wager would find this note on the top of his cap. As the other newsboys prepared for another day of selling, Wager would remain seated on his bed, expression growing steadily more solemn as he read:

            _Wager, I don't think this'll come as a surprise to you, but I have to leave. There're some things I have to deal with and I can't be any help here anymore. I know you'll be a good leader. Good luck and good-bye. Spot_

            He left the piece of paper by Wager, hoping that he and the rest of the Brooklyn newsies would understand. It was better this way, he assured himself as he crept through the bunkroom, careful not to rouse even the lightest of sleepers.

            The usually creaking staircase didn't give away his presence that evening, a slight relief to Spot. He passed by Gellar's desk for the final time, not even daring to breathe, despite the fact that any sound would have been muffled by the older man's loud, rhythmic snores. The door swung to a nearly inaudible close as Spot stole into the barren streets.

            Slinging his makeshift sack over his shoulder, he rushed down the sidewalk, his path largely concealed by the icy fog. He didn't dare to halt his mechanically moving feet in fear that he would lose his nerve and forever be trapped in Brooklyn as a ghost of his former self. Only when he was a safe seven blocks away did he succumb to the temptation and turned slowly to look at the lodging house one last time; but by then, the building had been swallowed up by the fog.

            Heart sinking, Spot whirled back around, attempting to convince himself with each step he took that this was all for the best.

*****

            The city was still enveloped in darkness when Spot approached his destination. He paused before entering, drawing a deep breath and raising his chin slightly. _No turnin' back now, he told himself sternly. He didn't allow himself to ponder what exactly 'back' was._

            He crept through hallways and climbed stairs cautiously, as though afraid the fragile floorboards would give way beneath his weight. The walls were so dark that they swallowed any possible bit of light available. Trusting childhood memories instead of his eyes, he moved slowly but deliberately. The sounds of gentle, sleep-induced murmurs and snores wafted around him, mingling with the stench of decay and rodent feces. He recalled being in the same situation only a few days prior…living in these conditions years before that, when he had been terrified to speak in front of his father.

            Not even the keenest of observers would have noticed how Spot's hands trembled as he stood in front of one of the identical wooden doors that lined the hallway. _Dis is what ya wanted, he reminded himself as he untied the leather cord wound around his neck and extracted the key he had strung on it years ago._

            "Heah goes," he muttered, his own voice surprising him as it shattered the silence of the hall. He unlocked the door and, clutching his cane as though it were a weapon rather than a walking stick, slid inside.

            His slim body seemed to blend in with the shadows cast against the wall. For a moment he simply studied his surroundings as if he had never been there before (although he vaguely wondered how he could ever forget them). He was surprised to see that the small cot, which was placed by the oven and usually held the three youngest members of Spot's family, was bare. His heart slammed against his chest and he paled visibly as a dozen emotions stewed in his stomach.

            _What if dey left…or got kicked out? he wondered as he took a frantic step away from the wall. __I shoulda been heah. Foist Grin, now dis… Maybe dey didn't even wanna tell me… I can't be too late… Shit, what have I done?_

            "Ethan?" an anxious, yet hopeful voice tossed Spot back to reality. "Is that really you?"

            The faint glow of a nearly melted candle seemed to illuminate the entire room. Spot's mother cautiously stepped forward from the doorway. Even from his slightly distance, Spot noticed the tears sparkling in her eyes.

            "Yeah," he murmured. "It's me, Mom."

            She held her hand to her mouth, as though not trusting the emotions that would otherwise pour out. As she struggled to maintain control, a tiny white form, which seemed to shine even in the dull light, darted out from behind Spot's mother. Lily almost tripped over the hem of her nightgown- a hand-me-down from her sister that she still needed to grow into- as she threw her arms around her brother's waist, holding onto him doggedly.

            "I knew ya'd come back…" she whispered delightedly. "I told dem ya'd be back soon. Dey were worried but I told 'em ya'd come back."

            He didn't move to loosen her firm, enthusiastic embrace as he had done on the last occasion he had been in the tenement. Instead, he gently placed on hand atop her unkempt blonde tresses and the other on the small of her back. "I promised, didn't I?"

            She nodded and tightened her grasp. "Yeah. T'ings are really gonna be okay now, Ethan."

            "Yeah, dey are." As the words slipped from his mouth, he wondered who was he trying to convince- Lily or himself? He struggled to ignore the stubborn ache that had manifested itself the moment he stepped into Manhattan.

To be continued…please send feedback!


	7. Chapter 7

Author's note: Thanks to Bittah (my lovely beta-muse) and Katie for reviewing the last couple of chapters. You guys rock! I hope you enjoy this next part.

Roxy was awakened by an unkind chill in the air and the sensation of someone frantically shaking her shoulder. She was debating whether or not to simply smack the agitator and return to the last moments of sleep she would have that morning when Wager's anxious voice hissed, "Roxy, come on, wake up."

            She moaned faintly and forced her eyelids open to find the newsboy kneeling beside her bed, crimson lines forked through his eyes like tiny bolts of lightning and an uncommonly panicked expression on his face. Her stomach dropped as she thought of Grin lying broken in the next bunkroom.

            "Wager, it isn't-" she, sitting up quickly, began to inquire, but the newsie shook his head.

            "No, Grin's okay- well, as okay as ya can be when ya got da shit kicked outta ya…" He shook his head again and cleared his throat. "And I t'ink dis might be even woise, if ya can believe dat." He extracted a scrap of newspaper and pressed it into Roxy's palm.

            Her face paled to match the shade of her sheets. "Oh, Wager…" was all she could murmur.

            "I know…poifect timin', ain't it?" he asked bitterly.

            She thoroughly scanned the note several times, as though the answers to all her problems were imbedded somewhere in the sharp scrawl. Finding no such solution, she gazed back up at Wager with a hopeless countenance. "What are we going to do?" she wondered aloud.

            A reply had nearly slipped out of his mouth but he immediately fell silent at the sight of Rabbit stirring slightly in her bed. He motioned first to the doorway and then for Roxy to follow. The two newsies barely dared to breathe until they were in the hallway, a safe distance from both bunkrooms.

            "What can we do?" Wager hissed. "T'ings ain't been goin' great lately, but at least Spot was around. Now deah ain't not'ing stoppin' Jackal. He'll come aftah us as soon as he heahs."

            The newsgirl nodded solemnly. She bit her lower lip and silently appealed to every deity she knew of- even those in whom she did not believe- for a miracle. "Well…" she murmured, "maybe we can keep things quiet for a few days. Make sure that everybody knows not to talk about it, at least when they're within earshot of anyone not in the lodging house."

            "Oh, yeah, dat'll be easy."

            "What else can we do?" Wager was silent and Roxy frowned soberly. "Tell the guys when they wake up; they'll all want to know right away why Spot's not in his bunk."

            "And make sure dat Cardinal and Rabbit get da message." He rolled his eyes at the thought of the two Brooklyn newsgirls. "I don't t'ink deir mouths are evah shut."

            The hint of a grin curled at the corner of Roxy's lips. "I'll tell them." She crept towards the girls' bunkroom. Just before she stepped through the doorway she paused, turning to Wager with an encouraging, somewhat melancholy smile. "Good luck. I mean, you're the leader from now on."

            He looked down, studying his dirty bare feet, and shoved his hands into his pockets. "T'anks, Roxy. It's a huge honah and everyt'ing…" he trailed off, leaving Roxy waiting for a moment before he gazed up again, his expression stoic but his eyes shining with stubborn tears. "But ya know, I wish ta God dat I didn't have ta get it like dis."

*****

            Imp raced along the Brooklyn streets at a breakneck speed, her mass of ebony tangles flying behind her like an unironed cloak. Pedestrians darted out of her way as she slid through the crowds. Most people cast disgruntled, disdainful stares at her back as she darted away without apology for her dangerous pace. Some muttered under their breathes about the decline of respect and therefore Western civilization. A few cried out to her, either ordering her to slow down or telling her in impolite terms where she could go. None of these reactions restrained Imp in the slightest. Instead of listening to the mumbles and shouts, she concentrated on the roar of her metallic wheels against the dirt and pavement; she looked to the sea of sidewalk ahead instead of at the faces of unhappy denizens.

            She knew that Roxy would be upset when she returned to the lodging house later that afternoon. Cardinal (who had been assigned to sell with the youngest newsgirl in Brooklyn) would be furious, possibly even enough to earn Imp a slap or worse. Imp didn't particularly care.

            _Cardinal's so annoyin', she thought petulantly. __'Do dis, Imp, do dat. No, stop it.' What a creep. She made the resolution to put something wet and slimy in the redhead's bed that evening. __Besides, how could dey expect me ta jus' sit around wid her. I got places ta go._

            Despite her youth, Imp usually sold alone, not patient enough to deal with anyone else's selling habits. She far preferred to strap on the battered roller-skates she had acquired months ago in a trade (Imp had provided a deck of cards and a pack of cigarettes to a wealthy but curious Manhattan girl) and then rush throughout Brooklyn. Although she knew the danger of selling unaccompanied that day, with Spot gone and Jackal on the loose, she decided to take her chances with Fate.

            Fate, however, had a cruel sense of humor and seemed to enjoy a good laugh at 9:30 in the morning.

            It wasn't until Imp was flying through the air that she realized that her wheels were no longer roaring and that the distance was approaching at a slightly more rapid pace. She smashed into the unkind ground, knees and arms bloodied and clothing torn to disrepair. She was berating herself for her clumsiness when a shadow enveloped her.

            "Da goils in da Brooklyn Lodgin' House sure ain't graceful," drawled the faintly familiar, maliciously cheerful voice of Imp's attacker.

            Imp turned to sit on the ground, staring up at the two people looming over her like the massive buildings in Manhattan. For a moment the bright sunlight, which glowed behind them, concealed their features. The young newsgirl raised her hand to shield her eyes, which narrowed once she realized who the strangers were: Cotton and Daze of the Debler Street Lodging House. Imp clenched her small, bloodstained fists.

            "Dis is Spot's territory," she growled before she recalled that now the area belonged to Wager. "Get out."

            Cotton and Daze turned to each other with amused expressions and laughed lightly. "Whadda ya gonna do ta us?" Cotton wanted to know. "You'se too small ta hoit an ant."

            Imp's lips vanished into a deep frown. She leapt from her place on the sidewalk and attempted to charge at the other newsgirls. Her attack, however, proved to be in vain. Daze easily whirled Imp around, twisting the young girl's arms behind her back at an unnatural angle. Imp swung her legs wildly, hoping to land a swift kick between Daze's legs, but even with the added length and weight of her roller skates she didn't manage to harm her captor.

            The Brooklyn newsgirl saw her salvation as it approached. An amiable-looking, elderly nun had taken notice of her injuries and was walking towards her from down the block. Imp adopted her most innocent, pathetic expression and prepared to plea for assistance. 

            Cotton guessed her plan before the nun reached them. Imp's body tensed when she felt the cold point of a very sharp knife press against her back.

            Try anyt'ing funny and ya'll end up woise off den Grin," she growled in the young girl's ear.

            The nun hurried over with a concerned expression. "Oh, my dear," she murmured at the sight of Imp's state of disarray, "What happened? You'll be needing some medical assistance. If you'd come with me to the church, I'll get you some bandages and-"

            "T'anks, sistah," Daze interjected. She held Imp closer as though in affection and gave a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "We'se got it covahed. Our liddle sistah heah jus' had an accident and we'se takin' her home ta get her cleaned up."

"Looks much woise den it actu'lly is," Cotton piped up assuredly.

            The nun paused for a moment before nodding. "Of course. God bless you dears." She strolled off in the direction of the local Catholic church. Once she had turned a corner, Daze and Cotton dragged Imp into a nearby alley, where they would not be disturbed by any more kindly philanthropists. They lifted her a few feet above the ground and slammed her against the wall, pinning her there so that she was as animate as the pile of wooden crates lying close by.

            "All right, kid," Cotton said, eyes flashing dangerously, "dis can eiddah go da easy way or da hard way."

            "And we'se kinda partial ta da hard way," her partner added.

            Imp's eyes narrowed to slits but she did not reply. _Forget Cardinal, she thought as she glowered at her two assailants. __Dese two are biggah creeps den she'll evah be._

            "Now," Cotton continued, "we'se gonna ask ya some questions, and you'se gonna tell us exactly what we wants ta know. And if not…let's jus' say dat's da hard way." She and Daze chuckled viciously. Imp imagined the girls as venomous snakes, hissing their wicked delight. "So, what happened ta Grin?"

            The black-haired girl studied the Debler Street newsies closely before replying. "We found him. He's beaten up real bad."

            "He's still alive?" Daze wanted to know

            Imp nodded. "Yeah, so far."

            "And ya know who did dat ta him?"

            "We ain't stupid," she replied, slightly affronted. "Not like you'se." That remarked caused Daze to draw back her arm. A second later Imp found her lip split and bleeding onto her already soiled shirt.

            "Don't get smart wid us," warned Cotton. Imp clamped her mouth shut in fear that further insults would slip out. "Jus' answah da question."

            "Do we know who did dat?" the young girl repeated. "Yeah, we kinda figuahed it was da Deblah Street newsies, even dough Grin ain't awake yet ta tell us."

            "How did Spot react ta Grin bein' like dat?"

            Imp made a feeble attempt at a shrug. "I dunno. Dey made me stay downstaihs da whole time." At the sight of Daze's raised fist, she stammered, "It's da truth, I really don't know."

            Daze rolled her eyes in disbelief, but continued the inquiry. "Heah's da most impoitant question, kid. Make sure ya get it right. Now, we know dat Spot wasn't around sellin' da moinin' edition. _Why?"_

            The memory of the morning forked through Imp's mind like lightning. "We have to make sure that the Debler Street newsies don't find out about Spot, at least not until we can think of a way to stop them," Roxy had told all the newsgirls, who had all become marble statues at the news of Spot's disappearance. Staring at Daze's rough, unattractive features, Imp's face reddened and her forehead furrowed with anger. Instead of replying, she spit in the girl's face.

            While Daze shrieked with rage and shock, Cotton struck the girl squarely in the stomach. Imp felt all the air in her body suddenly disappear. She wanted to double over in pain but her arms were still pinned against the wall.

            "We'll ask ya again," Cotton said with bare control. "Why?"

            Imp took a moment to gather enough breath to even consider answering. The tears that gathered in her eyes burned so painfully that she imagined them to be made of fire rather than water. "Spot…" she murmured softly, scarcely able to get the words out due to both the physical pain and her gnawing conscience. "He…he…"

            Daze drew back her fist again. "We ain't exactly patient."

            Imp gasped for breath. _Sorry about dis, she silently apologized to those she knew she would be harming by speaking her next words. "He left…jus' took off…. Now Wagah's…in charge. …Didn't want…anybody…else ta…know."_

            The Debler Street newsgirls glared at Imp for a moment, considering the validity of her statement. Then they nodded at each other and released their grip on the girl's limbs, letting her fall to the pavement. Imp, who was curled up in a fetal position, groaned when she struck the ground, a sound that only emitted chortles from Cotton and Daze.

            "T'anks a lot, kid," Cotton chuckled. Her mouth contorted into a savage smirk as she drew back her leg and then kicked the young girl in the stomach as though she were a dog. "See ya around."

            Their laughter echoed throughout the alley as they left, muffling Imp's pathetic whimpers.

*****

            Jackal's eyes flashed cold and elated and malicious as he gazed out at the members of the Debler Street Lodging House. He felt an excitement stir in his core, as though something that had been deeply imbedded in his flesh was awakening after a long, restless slumber. His fingers curled around the long knife he had taken care to meticulously sharpen that morning while the other newsies were out selling or scouting for information. Nothing would stand in his way, not when he had come so far…not when he was so close.

            He recalled being a young boy and selling around Debler Street, where the families were too poor to afford the luxury of knowing the world's news. _Stealin' and scroungin' and workin' 'till our fingahs bled ta make a lousy cent. The thought boiled inside of him like molten lava. __And dem, not even lettin' us inta deir territory. Dey're gonna get deir's._

            Lucifer had chosen to rule in Hell rather than serve in Heaven; Jackal wanted to obtain the best of both.

            "Spot is gone," he announced to the eager group before him. "We now have da opportunity ta take what is rightfully ours. We must show no mercy. If we succeed tahnight- and we will succeed," he drawled, casting a venomous stare that warned the newsies of what punishment would occur if they failed, "den we'll finally be outta dis place." A serpentine smile curved across his face and his voice dropped into a deadly whisper. "Deah ain't not'ing dat can stop us now. By tahnight, Brooklyn'll be ours."

To be continued…please send feedback!


	8. Chapter 8

Author's note: I'd like to thank Emu, deanie, and Bittah (my love beta-muse) for reviewing the last chapter. I hope you enjoy this one as well.            

            "Stupid goil," Cardinal growled angrily as she frantically scanned the crowds milling around Brooklyn that morning. The frown that was firmly implanted on her face deepened with each passing minute. She muttered curses against Imp, Wager, and the Debler Street newsies. _Great, I try ta sell papes for one second and she disappeahs widout a trace, even aftah I told her not ta run off anywheahs. Of all da people da had ta be stuck wid Imp, da most infuriatin' goil dis side of da Hudson, it had ta be me. Wagah's gotta have somet'ing against me._

            The newsgirl felt a slight twinge of guilt at denouncing Wager. _It ain't like dis is da best day of his life…of any of our lives._ She sighed heavily. _He didn't even care enough ta tell us why._

            Shaking her head violently, she willed the thought out of her mind. "Come on," she told herself, "ya got a job ta do."

            _Yeah, _she thought peevishly,_ a job dat isn't gonna be any easiah now dat ya have ta baby-sit an irritatin' psychotic brat._

            Suddenly a frigid shiver crept up her spine. An icy wind bit at her nape while the sun, which had been shining on her back, did nothing to warm her. _Deah__ ain't a cloud in da sky,_ she thought for a second before realizing that someone's shadow had enveloped her. Before she could even reach for her slingshot, a grimy hand covered her mouth and an arm held her tightly around the waist, pinning her arms to her sides.

            "Fight and I'll kill ya," her attacker drawled with malicious delight. Cardinal recognized the tip of a sharp hunting knife pressing against her stomach and grew colder still.

            He dragged Cardinal, who had since fallen paralyzed at the slight touch of the blade, into a nearby tenement building. He only released her to push her down half a flight of stars and into a shadowy basement. Dust rose in filthy clouds as she hit the floor. The soft scratching of rats' claws against the ground faintly echoed in her ears. Although her back and ribs ached, she miraculously made it to her feet in time to face her attacker.

            She was not surprised to see Dash, his arms crossed and his lips curled into a complacent smirk, standing before her. "You'se Deblah Street newsies ain't da brightest," she remarked with more audacity than she possessed at the moment. "Ya ain't nevah gonna get Spot's territory."

            His smile spread to display rows of yellow teeth. "Good t'ing it _ain't_ Spot's territory anymore, den."

            Cardinal's blood freeze. "Dat…dat…" she stuttered, "Dat ain't true."

            He seemed to find her panicked denial extremely amusing. "We know da truth," he informed her boastfully, taking a step towards her. "Spot's gone and you'se all are like lambs ready ta be slaughtered." He brandished his knife, eyes gleaming like the blade in the dull light.

            "Ya t'ink dat's gonna scare me?" she wanted to know, stepping backwards and finding only a wall, which granted her no confidence about her previous statement.  
            "No," he replied calmly, "I t'ink dat's gonna kill ya." He glanced from her blanching face to the rest of her body, then met her eyes again. "I hoid dat da Brooklyn goils weren't dat bad. Dis'll be da poifect time ta find out for myself."

            Air rushed from her lungs and her stomach lurched in a combination of horror and disgust. She reached for her slingshot again, wishing it were a gun. Before she could extract her weapon Dash had her pinned to the wall, the tip of his knife pressing against her stomach. His mouth covered her, and she aimlessly wondered if she would fall unconscious at the stench of his rotten breath.

            A frantic and dogged internal voice screamed at her. _Do something! You're dead anyways!_  She gathered all courage existing in her body at that moment and quickly prayed for a miracle. Then she drew back her right leg and, without waiting to see if Dash noticed her movements, kneed him in the groin.

            She knew not to waste a moment. While he was doubled over in pain and swearing vehemently, Cardinal bolted to the cellar door. She felt herself running as quickly as Rabbit or Swifty could. Allowing fear to drive her body faster with adrenaline, her legs pumped rapidly. The newsgirl imagined that her lungs would burst into flames at any moment. She barely allowed herself to think before she reached the Brooklyn Lodging House.

            _At least he won't be reproducin' any time soon,_ she thought with dull humor as she curled up on the dilapidated staircase. It was then that she noticed that she was shaking with the force of an earthquake, and that she was unable to will her fear away.

*****

            Gull was furious. His frown seemed carved out of marble. His hands, clenched around a newspaper, could have easily snapped someone's neck. He felt like snapping a very specific someone's neck at the moment.

            _So what if he's havin' problems, he thought irately. __It ain't like nobody else in da world has problems. _

            He kicked a pebble into the churning waters of the East River. He remembered Wager's warnings that the Debler Street newsies would be prowling around, so they should stay in pairs; Gull, however, chose to ignore this advice. He had made a feeble excuse to Jade, his selling partner, about meeting with a Harlem newsie for an hour. Jade had adopted a slightly suspicious expression, but hadn't protested. Gull was grateful for these few moments alone.

            _He didn't even care enough about __Brooklyn__ ta explain it ta us- jus' left a damn note on Wagah's hat like he was gonna take a stroll befoah sellin' papes. He glanced down at the newspaper he had been clutching and tossed it to the ground in frustration, muttering obscenities under his breath._

            Against his will, he remembered joining the Brooklyn newsies at age nine. Reason, a massive boy of seventeen with skin like expensive chocolate, had been the leader then. When he informed Gull that Spot would be teaching him the ropes, Gull had been offended.

            "Whadda ya talkin' about?" Gull had demanded. "Puttin' me wid a kid I could snap like a twig."

            Gull regretted his words the moment they slipped from his lips. Spot moved like lightning, punching Gull squarely in the eye. While Gull sunk into a nearby bunk and, praying he wouldn't cry, mumbled all the swears he knew, Spot stood calmly at his side.

            "Nice job snappin' me like a twig," he drawled and folded his arms confidently over his chest. "Now, are ya gonna shut up and listen or do I gotta give ya annudah black eye?"

            The young newsie fell into a guilty silence. Through his good eye, he noticed a grin suffusing over Spot's face. "Heah," Spot said as he retreated to the bathroom, "I'll get ya a cold towel. If ya can take a punch like dat widout cryin', I don't t'ink we'll have a lotta problems with you."

            As he gazed into the river, Gull could almost hear the Reason and the other Brooklyn newsboys (all long gone by now; he wondered what had happened to them) burst into noisy laughter. Spot had been so at ease in Brooklyn, even with the older newsies. They seemed to recognize his natural strength, compassion and determination. _Dey__ all musta known he'd end up being famous one day, Gull supposed._

            _Den why da hell did he leave?! he furiously demanded of himself. __He's got ev'ryt'ing he needs right heah. Dis is wheah he belongs, damnit! Why da hell didn't he care enough about __Brooklyn-__ about us!- ta stay?_

            "I wondah what could make our friend Gull heah so upset?" a mockingly kind voice inquired from behind the Brooklyn newsboy. He whirled around, slingshot in hand, and found himself facing Bulldog, Toad, and Swing, all of whom grinned smugly.

            "Get da hell outta our territory," Gull growled dangerously.

            "Too bad it _ain't you'se territory anymore," Toad replied as a victorious grin curled at the corners of his lips._

            "_Get out," he repeated, narrowing his eyes._

            "I don't t'ink you'se should be da one givin' ordahs around heah, Gull."

            "And I don't t'ink ya heah so good."

            "Hopefully not," Swing replied. "I'd hate ta miss your screams."

            Gull's face reddened and his knuckles blanched as they clutched his slingshot. While the Debler Street newsies chuckled viciously, sounding like a choir of snakes, Gull grasped a few more marbles from his pocket. Cursing his enemies, he shot one marble after another at their heads. For a moment, they shouted obscenities and covered their heads. Gull grinned, but knew his victory would be a brief one, for he had just shot his last marble at Bulldog.

            _Damnit__, he thought as his opponents reached for their knives and glared at him, their expressions guaranteeing pain._

            Gull knew he had only one option. Before he could even consider the effects of his act on his pride, his feet were already carrying him away from Debler Street newsies and into the throngs of dockworkers nearby. Instead of hearing footsteps pounding behind him, he heard the roar of ferociously triumphant laughter.

            "And dat's why Brooklyn is gonna be so easy ta take!" Toad shouted at the newsboy's quickly retreating figure.

*****

            Smoke was already on his third cigarette of the day. Ordinarily Mist would have commented that he might sell more papers if he concentrated on the headlines rather than the reason behind his nickname. That morning, however, Mist knew that she would have been a hypocrite if she made such a remark. "Got anuddah one?" she inquired of her fellow Brooklyn newsie with a heavy, defeated sigh.

            Smoke raised his ash-colored eyebrows in surprise. Then he reached into his deep pocket and extracted another expertly rolled stick. "Heah," he said as he handed it to her.

            "T'anks." She leaned against the wall of a nearby bakery and drew a long drag. Neither newsie spoke for what seemed like an eternity, not even to shout the headlines at the pedestrians. The morning was too powerful, too draining for anything they could have said in an attempt to rationalize their thoughts.

            That was why Mist was stunned when Smoke, the most troublesome member of the Brooklyn Lodging House, began to speak. She looked from the ground to her companion, who was talking in a low, solemn voice that she had never heard him use. He didn't turn to look at her; rather, he stared out at the myriad of people passing them by.

            "I don't think deah's a newsie heah dat don't know what trouble or pain or rage really is," he said. "We all joined up 'cause deah wasn't anyt'ing else we could do. We can't go home 'cause of abuse or death or somet'ing else dat makes us stay heah. We don't choose dis life 'cause we wanna be heah; we choose it 'cause we got ta. We've seen a lot, prob'ly too much. But we always had each oddah, even when our own families didn't give a damn about us." He finally turned to his companion, who studied him in curious, respectful silence. "Tahday, it seems like we don't even have dat no more."

            Mist felt her heart contract and shrivel at this knowledge. She wanted to protest his declaration, to tell him that even though Spot had left them they would be forever the infamous Brooklyn newsies, capable of taking on the world. She wanted to reassure him that things would never change; but no matter how she tried to force out the words that caught in her throat, all she could do was study Smoke's hard, sober face and nod her agreement.

            The moment of despondent realization was shattered by the sound of a frantic, high-pitched voice. "Hey! Ya two newsies! Hey!"

            They stood, hoping to conceal the emotion that had been written on their pained faced, and saw a young boy approaching them. The first glimpse of his shabby clothing and dirty face identified him as a street kid. He pushed through the crowds to stand at the newsies' side.

            "You'se…you'se Brooklyn new-newsies, ri-right?" he asked, stuttering horribly.

            Mist narrowed her eyes in suspicion. "Why?"

            "It's one…one of you-you'se," he told them while biting at his thumbnail, "Da odd-oddah newsies…Deblah new-newsies…dey got one tr-tr-trapped."

            "Wheah?" Smoke demanded, towering over the boy.

            "The…the…the alley be-behind da factor-tor-factory on Sixth."

            "How come you know dis?"

             The boy gulped as he gazed up at Smoke's dangerous gray eyes. "I…I…I saw 'em. Dey was takin' dis young g-goil inta da alley. Ya got-gotta help her."

            Smoke and Mist eyed each other solemnly. Then the newsboy turned to the young street kid once again and, eyes as hard as granite, nodded once. The street kid understood that his job was done and, without waiting for their thanks, vanished into the crowds

            Mist turned to her selling partner. "What do ya t'ink? It could be a trap, ya know. Prob'ly is."

            He nodded. "Yeah. But I dunno if we should be willin' ta take dat chance."

            Had the situation not been so serious, she would have smiled at him. "Okay, let's go," she said, reaching into her back pocket for her slingshot, "but let's not be idiots."

            "Am I usually?" he inquired with his usual mischievous smirk.

             Although Mist didn't know the details of Smoke's dangerous past, she imagined that the newsboy had cut his eyeteeth on a slingshot. Instead of answering, she merely rolled her eyes good-naturedly and dashed off in the direction of the factory, Smoke at her side.

            The noise of the factory was deafening, even on the other side of the brick walls. Both newsies were silently thankful that their jobs didn't entail standing beside a roaring machine all day, fearful of losing a hand or worse. _If t'ings don't get beddah for __Brooklyn__, we might all jus' end up like dat,_ Mist thought and suppressed a shudder.

            Smoke and Mist entered the alley cautiously, slingshots raised and poised to shoot, their countenances veiled by hard expressions. They didn't dare to lower their weapons once they realized they were the sole occupants of the alley. _Okay,_ Smoke told himself, attempting to be rational through his anxiety, _eiddah__ dey already got away or dat kid's a liar. If I evah catch him-_

            He was unable to finish that thought, for a blistering pain tore across his back, knocking him to the ground. He closed his eyelids tightly in hopes of blockading the tears that had suddenly pooled. It wasn't until he heard Mist whimper softly that he realized she was beside him, biting her lip to contain a sob.

            "Wow, dey actu'lly fell for it," an amused voice drawled from behind them.

            "Yeah," another person agreed, "no wondah takin' deir territory's been so easy."

            The two Brooklyn newsies didn't have to turn to know the owners of the voices. They recognized them instantly as Jester and Fist, two Debler Street newsies. Smoke and Mist cursed themselves for falling prey to such an obvious trap.

            Jester and Fit chortled maliciously as they struck their victims across their backs yet again. _Chains_, Smoke assumed as he winced, knowing he and his companion would have several bruises and cuts to show for their mistake- if they were to even make it out alive to tell the tale.

            He gazed over at Mist and saw that her hand was clenched tightly around her slingshot. Their eyes met for a moment and a thought sparked between them like lightning. _One chance,_ Mist realized and nodded to the newsboy, knowing that he would understand her plan and hoping that the Debler Street newsies were still in the process of raising their chains into the air.

            They whirled around to face their attackers and each shot a heavy marble at one of the Debler Street newsies. Mist's struck on the bridge of Jester's nose. Fist caught Smoke's marble in his right eye. Their foes, although momentarily incapacitated, still blocked the mouth of the alley, making Smoke and Mist realize they still had to fight their way out.

            While the Debler Street newsies yowled and clutched their faces in pain, Mist and Smoke leapt to their feet. Both Brooklyn newsies longed for a more substantial weapon, like the chains Jester and Fist brandished.

            "Heah," Mist, noticing the remains of a broken broom, called to her partner. She tossed him half of the stick and he shrugged, as if it to say that it was better than nothing.

            By this time, Fist and Jester had regained their senses. They didn't seem worried that their victims were no longer moaning on the ground. They chuckled and mockingly swung their chains.

            "Scary," Jester remarked facetiously. "So dis is da woik of da most intimidatin' newsies in New Yawk. Can't say I'm too impressed."

            Smoke narrowed his eyes. Instead of replying, he brought the stick back and swung at Jester's head. Jester attempted to duck, but caught the corner of the stick on his temple. He screamed in a combination of rage and pain, and clutched the side of his head. Fist swung at Smoke, hitting him in the back and causing the boy to fall to the ground once again. He opened his mouth to laugh in triumph, but was silenced by Mist's stick striking him across the face. 

            Mist didn't waste time in beating him further. She grabbed Smoke's arm and yanked him to his feet. "Come on!" she shouted with as much confidence as she could muster.

            Bodies aching with each step they took, they rushed out of the alley and into the streets of Brooklyn. They heard Jester and Fist following, screaming threats, and knew not to slow their pace. They also realized that to get safely to their lodging house, they would have to lose their attackers.

            "This way," Smoke panted, nodding slightly towards an apartment building. Mist didn't question his direction. Rumors of his past wafted through her mind and she reminded herself that he had never been caught by those who were after him. _If anyone can get us outta trouble, it's Smoke, she thought as they dashed into the ramshackle building._

            With Mist at his heels, Smoke darted up two flights of stairs, down a long hallway, and around a corner, stopping abruptly in front of one of the many doorways.

            Mist's eyes widened as the footsteps of Jester and Fist pounded in her ears. For a moment she wondered if he was a spy for the Debler Street newsies. "_What da hell are ya doin', ya moron?!" she demanded in an unusually frantic manner._

            Instead of turning to reply, he extracted a hair pin from his pocket and began to pick the lock. Almost instantly the door swung open, and Smoke yanked Mist into the shabby room, closing the door softly behind them. For a moment neither of them dared to blink. Mist was afraid that the sound of her wildly pounding heart would give them away. However, a moment later they heard familiar voices arguing on the other side of the door. Mist and Smoke tensed and listened.

            "Dey ain't heah."

            "I told ya dey musta gone down dat oddah hallway."

            "Nah, dey prob'ly jus' went up dat staircase."

            "I can't heah nobody runnin' anymore."

            "Ah, you'se deaf anyway. Come on."

            Their heartbeats decreased with the sound of departing footsteps. It wasn't until five minutes later that they dared to partake of the luxury of speech. Mist turned to Smoke with curiosity lighting her eyes.

            "How'd ya know ta come heah?"

            He raised his ashy eyebrows so that they disappeared under his greasy bangs. "How do ya know it wasn't jus' a good guess?"

            "'Cause ya wouldn't have known da layout of da buildin' dat well."

            He paused and folded his arms over his chest, studying his companion's face as though searching for the appropriate response. Mist was about to throw her arms up in defeat when he gestured dramatically to their surroundings.

            "'Cause, my dear Mist, dis is da room wheah I was born." Before Mist could inquire as to the details of his childhood (although she knew enough not to ask), he nodded to the window, allowing himself to wince slightly as he moved. "Come on- we can climb out onta da fire escape and down ta da streets befoah dey realize we're gone."

To be continued…please review!


	9. Chapter 9

Author's note:  Thanks to Crunch for reviewing the last part, and to Bittah for all her support and beta-ing. I hope you guys like this part!

            "…and Mama says dat, dat, um, maybe I can go to school in a few years,  since you're heah now and we can get a lot more money den we used ta." Lily gazed up at Spot with wide, questioning eyes. "But what do ya t'ink Ethan? Maybe I should go ta woik like you'se did? Jesse and Becca are old enough ta get jobs at factories, but ya know, dey say it's _real loud deah, and I ain't supposed ta talk 'cause I'd have ta concentrate on da woik, so dat wouldn't be much fun. But I t'ink dat happens in school, too, 'cause Johnny in da next buildin' says dat at his school da teachahs are __real mean and…"_

            Spot absently listened to his youngest sister's chipper and seemingly constant voice echo against the thin walls of the room. He could recall the walls trembling (like his bones used to) at the sound of his father's piercingly angry voice. A shriek of high-pitched giggles from Lily forced his back muscles to become taut like guitar strings. The sound of laughter was so foreign to him in that tenement. He would have to clench his teeth and fists so that the screams he had hidden as a child would not manifest themselves.

            He sensed his mother's gentle, callused hand rest on the small of his back, and managed not to flinch. "I don't think she's ever talked this much," she murmured with a charmed grin.

            "T'ink she'll stop long enough ta let me sleep tahnight?" he whispered back.

            "Probably not."

            Lily, noticing that she no longer had a captive audience, placed her hands on her hips and frowned petulantly. "I was _talkin__'," she reminded them._

            "And we was listenin'," Spot replied, smiling despite the anxiety that griped him.

            He had not known what to expect when he left the Brooklyn newsies to return to his family- or at least what was left of his family. His shoulders were constantly tensed, as if the yells and blows of his childhood would resume. It was disconcerting to sleep under the same roof that he had avoided for so many years and to avoid the place he had taken refuge.

            _What was I supposed to do? he demanded of himself. __It ain't like I coulda jus' left dem heah, aftah ev'ryt'ing dat's happened. I gotta take care of dem now. It ain't like __Brooklyn__ wasn't around befoah I got deah._

            Beside him, Lily watched as he meticulously counted coins from a meager pile, chattering loudly as Spot went through the money his mother had managed to save after the funeral.** Her eyes sparkled in the faint light of the candle, but it wasn't just the candlelight that illuminated them. They were lit by her laughter, her smile, and her ability to speak without the fear of being screamed at. She had an internal glow more brilliant than the light of the candle. Spot couldn't remember a time when she had been so naturally luminous.**

            _Brooklyn'll__ get along fine widout me, he tried to assure himself._

*****

            Roxy stared through the sea of blackened eyes, bloodied shirts, and trembling hands before her and felt her stomach twist violently. She eyed Wager who, despite his composed veneer, had paled to an unnatural shade and breathed slowly, as though requiring extra breath. Roxy knew exactly how he felt; it seemed as though an unseen, icy hand was clenched around her throat.

            "Dey's comin' at us from ev'rywheah," Huck remarked as he held a large piece of ice (stolen from the back of an ice truck) to his bruised arm. "Peach and me was sellin' in our usual spot when we was attacked."

            "Dey been watchin' us. And we been too preoccupied ta notice," Rabbit spat vehemently.

            Retriever narrowed his eyes defensively. "What did ya expect us ta do? It ain't like our leadah up and abandons us ev'ry day."

            "It ain't like none of us know what abandonment is," Jade snapped.

            "And it ain't like we don't know how ta deal wid it."

            _Maybe that's why we're taking it so hard, Roxy pondered as she absently watched her fellow newsies argue. __We all know something about loss…but we never expected to lose anything like this. She turned to Wager, who had raised his hands into the air._

            "Okay, ev'rybody, settle down already," he called to them. "Now, pretty much all of us had some kinda attack. And even pairin' up, we didn't come out to well." The Brooklyn newsies failed to meet his gaze, ashamed that they had lost their fights so easily. "So what do dey got dat we don't got?"

            Stormy gazed up from her tattered boots. "Dey seemed ta know wheah we'd be, and who we'd be wid. Dey…dey had it planned out real well."

            "Dey knew about us more den we knew about dem," Smoke mumbled, a cigarette dangling from his lips.

            "And dey have real good weapons," Port commented. "Dey ain't jus' comin' at us with fists- even dough dey ain't bad wid jus' does, eiddah. Dey got da fightin' knowledge along wid knives, chains, and slingshots."

            "And brass knuckles," Peach spoke up, wincing slightly as she tied a bandage around her head. "Even undah da best of circumstances, dose t'ings kinda hoit."

            Leap gazed up from the long gash on her arm. "And dat's annudah t'ing. Dey knew dat dis wasn't da best of circumstances. All da Deblah Street newsies seemed ta know dat we'd be real distracted tahday…what wid ev'ryt'ing dat happened and all. I mean, eiddah dey're real good guessers or dey got spies or somet'ing."

            Gull's eyes sliced through the air and into each member of the Brooklyn Lodging House. "It could be someone heah," he remarked, his voice colder and sharper than a hunting knife. "We was da only ones who knew about Spot leavin'; who else could it have been?"

            Roxy opened her mouth to protest that no one in Brooklyn would willingly betray their fellow newsies like that, but Gull had already leapt to his feet. "I mean, aftah tahday, who knows? Who really knows who da hell we all are? What do we really know about each uddah? If Spot can jus' leave us, who's ta say dat somebody else wouldn't jus' hand us ovah ta Jackal?" He turned to glare at a few of the newsies. "Not ev'rybody heah got attacked tahday. Maybe dat wasn't jus' a coincidence. Maybe deah's someone heah who ain't feelin' dat badly about da Deblah Street newsies takin' ovah."

            Rabbit jumped up, her eyes flashing a dangerous challenge to Gull. "Hey," she growled, "jus' because somebody was smart enough ta stick wid a sellin' partnah and stay in a safe area _doesn't make 'em a traitor."_

            "It makes t'ings look a little suspicious, dough, don't it?" Cardinal, Rabbit's closest friend, replied.

            Smoke folded his arms over his chest and narrowed his eyes at Gull. "And besides, ya ain't lookin' too bad yourself, Gull. I don't t'ink ya should be the one makin' any accusations."

            Gull reddened. "Are ya implyin' somet'ing, Smoke?"

            "I'm jus' sayin' maybe ya ain't as honest as ya'd like us ta t'ink- eiddah dat or you'se just a coward."

            There was an explosion of fists and furious shouts. Smoke and Gull, cursing and struggling, were torn away from each other by those few who had managed to maintain their sense of faith in their fellow newsies. Accusations flew like bullets. Faces contorted in anger. The din attracted the attention of pedestrians across the street, who turned to study the scene in disgust and confusion. For a moment, Roxy understood Spot's desire to leave Brooklyn.

            A sharp whistle pierced the air, followed by a slightly panicked cry. "Jus' shut up! Shut up! All of ya!" Wager had dashed to the stoop in front of the lodging house and gazed down at his fellow newsies, who had momentarily stopped their fight to study their new leader. He breathed deeply as he looked at their faces, so furious and lost and wounded. He didn't know what he could possibly tell them that might ease their pain.

            Fortunately, he didn't have to. Mist spoke before he had the opportunity to open his mouth. "Hey," she remarked thoughtfully. "Dat smells like…like…like somet'ing's burnin'."

            The Brooklyn newsies' foreheads furrowed and eyebrows arched as they sniffed the air in confusion. "Like papah burnin'," Jade added.  'A lotta papah…."

            Despite their injuries, they dashed through the streets without concern for their injuries. Even blocks away they could see ominous clouds of black smoke rising, feel the air burning, and hear wood crackling. Screams pierced the air. Roxy felt her stomach twist into a tight knot. She glanced at the frantic, worried expressions of her fellow newsies and wondered how this could have happened to them in such a short period of time.

            They skidded to a terrified halt in front of the distribution office, enveloped in flame and smoke, wearing identical expressions of fear and disbelief. Men and women rushed around the yard clutching buckets of water, which only added to the chaos instead of reducing the flames. Charred wood began to crack and crumble under stress. The smoke attacked their lungs, devouring whatever pure air had existed in Brooklyn. The heat was nearly unbearable, pressing against their flesh like the embodiment of the Debler Street newsies' hatred. 

            _They don't just want our territory, Roxy realized with dull horror. Her eyes were burning and she could not be sure whether that was because of the heat or because of the tears she would not allow to come. __They must despise us. Vaguely, she heard the sharp ringing of a bell, signifying a fire truck approaching. She wondered what good that would do to help the Brooklyn newsies._

*****

            Roxy believed that she would never wash away the ash that coated her like a second skin. She smelt the scorched wood in her hair, tasted burnt paper on her tongue. The image of the inferno was just as permanently branded in her mind.

            The evening was frigid, in sharp contrast to the unnatural heat of that afternoon. Roxy and Wager huddled together on the staircase of their lodging house while the others attempted to sleep. Occasionally they heard the soft sounds of incoherent moans or restless movement, but no one joined the pair on the stairs. It was just as well. Roxy had made a decision and she did not want the others to know about it.

            "It coulda been a lot woise," Wager admitted, although he could not conceal the defeated tone of his voice. "All we lost is a couple of days woik- which ain't great, but it ain't like we gotta bury anybody. And dey stopped it from spreadin' ta da oddah buildin's, and maybe from killin' a lot of people- maybe from even destroyin' our lodgin' house."

            "They didn't want to destroy the lodging house," she debated with more harshness than she had intended. "They wouldn't destroy what they want. They just did that to scare us."

            "It woiked."

            Roxy drew a deep breath and lifted her chin defiantly, as though that would help her to gather the courage she needed.  "I want to go to Manhattan, Wager."

            He raised a curious eyebrow. "Ta live?" he inquired, as though she had just announced she was following in Spot's footsteps. "Roxy, ya can't leave now. I can't believe ya jus' wanna go and-"

            She shook her head and held up her hands in defense. "No, no," she assured him. "It's just that…well, you remember that day when we went to see the Manhattan newsies not that long ago? We talked to Jack about knowing anything unusual related to Spot. Well, I don't think he was telling us the whole truth. I kind of understand why he might not want to tell us everything, but things have changed and we need to know what's going on."

            "What will dat help?"

            She shrugged helplessly. "I…I just need to know what's happened."

            "How are ya gonna get deah?" he inquired solemnly. "It's a long walk ta Manhattan. And ya ain't exactly da toughest newsgoil we got."

            "I figure the Debler Street newsies have to sleep sometime. If I go out at night, I have a better chance at slipping away without them knowing. I know the area better than they do, especially in the dark." She stared at him with determination illuminating her eyes. "It's better for me to chance getting hurt than to stay here, doing nothing. If it comes down to a fight between us and them, I couldn't help anyway. Maybe I could find something out and get a message to you guys in case anything happens. With everyone hurt, we can't afford to lose any of our good fighters. It's worth the risk."

            He shook his head adamantly. "Not ta me," he replied. Roxy opened her mouth to protest, but he continued before she had the chance to speak. "If you'se so bent on goin', den I'm goin' wid ya. Come on- we'd beddah get goin' if we wanna get back befoah da sun comes up."

To be continued…please review!


	10. Chapter 10

Author's note: Thanks to Honor, sab, Marisa, Problems, and especially Volcanous for their reviews. You guys rule! I hope you enjoy this part, too.

            _Damnit__, Jack thought as he glanced out a window and noticed Roxy and Wager enter the Manhattan Lodging House. He turned away from the grimy windowpane, carelessly tossed his hat to his bunk, and cursed his luck. He could tell from their grim expressions—apparent even from the second floor of the lodging house—that he would not be able to avoid the situation any longer. __Especially if da rumahs are true, he thought, praying that he had been lied to._

            "Hey, Jack!" Boots's voice called and a second later his head popped into the bunkroom. "Wagah and Roxy are heah- dey say dey gotta talk ta ya."

            He nodded solemnly, the veins in his hands visible from tension. "Keep ev'rybody else outta da bunkroom, will ya?"

            "Sure." Boots's forehead furrowed in slight confusion, but he did not question Jack's request. He disappeared into the hallway and a moment later the Brooklyn newsies stepped purposefully into the room.

            There appeared to be a storm brewing in Jack's eyes; thus Roxy didn't feel the need to be diplomatic. "What didn't you tell us about Spot?' she demanded.

            Jack bristled. "Are ya callin' me a liar?"

            Roxy drew a deep breath and resisted the urge to punch him (although she realized, with her feeble fighting skills, it would not have done much good anyway). She marched towards him, speaking evenly as if she chose each word carefully. "No, Jack, of course not. It's just that Brooklyn is in a great deal of danger and we need to know everything you know. It might help us."

            He eyed the Brooklyn newsies with a combination of suspicion and alarm. "What happened?"

            "Ya mean deah ain't rumahs goin' around about us?" Wager inquired, raising his eyebrows in genuine surprise. "I'd t'ought aftah da fiah dat ev'rybody from heah ta Jersey woulda hoid."

            "No, I've hoid da rumahs. I jus' don't know what's true."

            "Spot, well…" Roxy said helplessly, not quite knowing where to begin. "You know he hasn't been himself lately—disappearing without telling anyone where he's going, being generally not there. Not like himself at all. And last night he left—not just temporarily, like he's been doing, but for good." She nodded to Wager. "He left Wager in charge, but now that the Debler Street newsies know we've been weakened—you know, by the shock of Spot leaving—they attacked us. Only a few people managed to get away from them unharmed." She was speaking swiftly now, for if they did not burst forth from her mouth quickly, she imagined that they would permanently stick in her throat. "And they burned down the distribution office, so even if we wanted to sell papers, we couldn't. And this can't keep up for much longer- either they'll kill us or we'll be out on the streets and die there. And now everyone is fighting- not us and the Debler Street newsies, but all of the Brooklyn newsies, fighting against the people we should care about most of all because we're all we have. Jack, we're losing everything; you have to help us."

            Jack was reminded of the time when he, David, and Boots traveled to Spot to ask for Brooklyn's backing during the strike. _Da_ famous ___Brooklyn__ newsies dat could make half of _Manhattan___ quake. How could dey have gotten dis way? he wondered at the sight of Roxy's frantic expression. He sighed heavily and unblinkingly studied the newsgirl. "Okay. What do ya wanna know?"_

            She sighed lightly in relief as though a stack of newspapers had been lifted off of her back. "Do you have any idea where Spot might be?"

            Silently scowling, he strove to maintain his stony countenance as he faced answering the one question that he had never dared to ask even himself. Motioning for the Brooklyn newsies to sit on a nearby bunk, he began, "See, Spot ain't originally from Brooklyn."

            Roxy and Wager's eyes widened. "What?" Wager asked. "Spot, he's—well, he _is Brooklyn."_

            "Well, I'm tellin' ya he ain't. He's from Manhattan. We grew up tahgeddah, not dat far from dis lodgin' house." Roxy nodded contemplatively, slowly realizing that this explained Spot's friendship with Jack, despite the distance of the boroughs. "His family was poor, of coise, like ev'rybody else. But his faddah…" Jack trailed off, remembering the cold, bitter man with callous, empty eyes. "He was horrible ta Spot. He nevah said so, but I t'ink dat was why Spot left Manhattan when he was so young. He was only five den. Dat's why ev'rybody t'inks he's from Brooklyn."

            Roxy's forehead furrowed as she tried to piece together the situation. "So…why do you think Spot came back to Manhattan?"

            Jack shook his head helplessly. "I dunno. But if it's anyt'ing, I'm guessin' it has ta do wid his family. Start lookin' deah—if ya even wanna start lookin' at all."

*****

            Roxy's heart sunk with each step she took as she ascended the darkened staircase. Her stomach clenched like a fist at the stench of rodent droppings and what smelt like decaying meat. Dust hung in the air like thick velvet curtains, causing Roxy to cough violently. She pressed a hand to her stomach and willed herself not to be sick. She remembered her home in California, where she had been raised, with orange trees and oleander in her backyard, the sweet smell of the ocean wafting into the windows in the morning. She remembered her parents, gentle and intelligent and beautiful. _Oh, God, she thought as her heart ached for Spot._

            Before she realized it (and, quite honestly, before she was prepared for it) she found herself standing in front of tenement number 43. Her heart raced as she cautiously reached out, as if fearing that the doorknob would bite her hand off, and knocked against the wood.

            The sound of footsteps preceded the door opening a crack. A young boy, with cheekbones like Spot's, stared at her suspiciously but did not say anything.

            "Hello," Roxy greeted uncertainly, wondering (and half-hoping) that Spot's family no longer lived here. "I'm looking for Spot- er, Ethan Conlon. Is he here?"

            The boy raised a distrustful eyebrow. "What do ya want wid him?"

            "I just want to talk to him," she promised. "I don't even need to come inside. If he's there, maybe he could come out here and-"

            The decrepit door creaked open, revealing Spot and a poor but well-kept apartment. Roxy's eyes widened at Spot's disheveled appearance. The rough stubble that suffused across his cheeks, the smudges of dirt and oil across his hands and face, and the baggy, stained shirt he donned—which Roxy was certain did not belong to him—disguised the former Brooklyn leader's innate confidence and strength. As Roxy had expected, he did not embrace her in greeting, but stared at her petulantly, as though wishing she would turn swiftly on her heel and march away without another word. His countenance masked the gnawing anxiety that had clenched his stomach since he had heard Roxy's voice drifting into the tenement. Even before he marched out of Brooklyn he had recognized that someone would come for him. He woke pale from nightmares or wild eyed newsies demanding explanations for his disappearnace, calling him a coward, and challenging him to a fight to defend the honor of the borough. The floor quaked beneath his feet at the sight of Roxy, whom he had always considered a true friend and whose confused, pained eyes boring into his. Wearily turning his face away from her, he waited for the inevitable rebuke.

            "Spot," Roxy exclaimed softly, then felt foolish for stating the obvious. "Jack…said you might be here."

            "Jack shoulda kept his mouth shut."

            She flinched slightly as though he had raised a hand to strike her. Seeing her reaction, his eyes fell to the floor and he motioned to the tenement. "Come on in," he said as he, pulling his brother back with him, stepped out of her way. He shut the door behind her and murmured to Jesse, "Why don't ya go in da oddah room with Becca and Lily?" His tone implied that this was more than just a suggestion. Jesse rolled his eyes, but disappeared into the next room.

            "So..." Roxy mumbled, embarrassed now that they were alone. _Why did I come, anyway? she demanded of herself as she studied Spot, who looked just as uncomfortable at the sight of her. Then she thought of Wager waiting patiently outside the tenement building, while the rest of the Brooklyn newsies gathered together in the girls' bunkroom. "What happened, Spot? You…you just left."_

            "I left a note," he replied defensively. "It wasn't like I had a lot of choices. My faddah is dead, Roxy, what else was I supposed ta do?"

            "You could have explained it to us—to me! Even the week before you left, it was like you weren't there."

            "What did ya expect of me?" he demanded harshly, voice rising with every word. "Dat I would be deah forevah? Dat I could jus' stick around and nevah be able to get out?"

            Roxy's voice was barely a whisper. "I…I didn't know you wanted to leave." Again she thought she would be violently ill.

            "Of _coise_ I wanted to leave!" he exclaimed, angry with her for wanting to keep him in Brooklyn and at himself for causing the abandoned glint in her eyes. "All da oddah Brooklyn leadahs—dey moved on, why not me? What am I supposed ta do? Stay deah forever, always a newsie, nevah able ta make somet'ing of myself. I got plans of my own, and people heah dat depend on me now. Ya jus' keep clingin' ta me and ya can't let go. Why? I ain't got _not'ing_,_ Roxy. I barely got five cents ta buy food for my youngah siblings.  And why? 'Cause I let myself get stuck in Brooklyn for so long, wheah I could nevah get anyt'ing. Brooklyn's shit, Roxy."_

             Tears stung the newsgirl's eyes, but she willed them to stay put. Instead of crying, she reached back, summoning all the strength she had, and punched Spot in the face.

            He staggered, out of surprise more than pain (although he vaguely thought that the Debler Street newsies might not have such an easy time beating her up) and blinked at her. "Ya hit me."

            "And I'll do it again, damnit," she cried, face reddening. She felt herself hating and loving all in a single exquisitely painful moment. Her heart seemed to be cracking like ice in her chest.

            He tensed, remembering threats his father used to make when in a dangerous mood. "Are ya gonna drag me back ta Brooklyn?" he inquired and glanced mockingly at her trembling body.

            "No," she murmured and attempted to appear as cool and controlled as Spot usually did. She drew a deep breath before replying. "No one ever expected you to stay forever, Spot; but we also didn't expect you to just run away like this." He opened his mouth to protest but she smoothly and steadily continued. "I'm going back to Brooklyn now. Come with me if you want to." She paused for a moment.  "But if you don't come with me now, don't even think about coming back ever again."

            With that, she turned on her heel and walked slowly out of the apartment. She did not turn to see if Spot was following her. When, in the hallway, she heard the door close softly behind her, she knew he had made his decision.

To be continued…please review!


	11. Chapter 11

Author's note: Wow, I haven't updated this in a while. Sorry for the wait (I hope there is still someone waiting to read this!). Thanks so much to Loud Mouth, Problems, Steph, Bottles, and Fish for their reviews. I really appreciate it! And once again, thanks to my lovely beta-muse, Bittah, who helped so much with this part. Enjoy!

            Wager had been waiting anxiously for Roxy on the grimy sidewalk, bouncing impatiently on his heels and occasionally glancing into the sky as though seeking divine intervention. When he heard the creak of the tenement door swinging open, he attempted to dissemble his hope. His face fell, however, at the sight of Roxy's lone figure, shoulders hunched and eyes downcast, exiting the building. He did not have to ask how the meeting had gone; he could see its effects painted on her disheartened face.

            Roxy did not look him in the eye as she came to stand before him, resembling a guilty schoolgirl stagnant before a stern headmaster. "I...he didn't…I don't…" she stumbled over her words before Wager shook his head empathetically.

            "I know," he gently assured her and she nodded, grateful that she did not have to continue. "Now what?"

            Shrugging helplessly, the newsgirl struggled for words. "I…I don't know. Back to Brooklyn, I guess."

            "Ta face da Deblah Street newsies on our own?"

            Roxy clenched her fists angrily, remembering the stinging sensation of her knuckles striking Spot's face. "Who needs Spot anyway?" she exclaimed, ignoring the pang of guilt that pierced her chest at the thought of her friend. "It's not like he's all of Brooklyn. We can handle this. We've taken on Pulitzer! We don't have to be afraid of some overly ambitious, heartless, vicious _children!"_

            Wager nodded emphatically. "Yeah, you'se right." He glanced wearily down the street at the rays of light breaking sharply over the rooftops. "Come on, we beddah get back."

            Roxy, hurrying alongside her fellow newsie, silently attempted to assure herself that everything would be all right. When this failed she tried to envision a life not in Brooklyn, not as a newsie—perhaps as a factory worker being yelled at by a disgruntled foreman, or a street kid learning how to pick pockets and swipe from fruit stands in order to fill her empty stomach. Neither image particularly appealed to her. Suddenly she recalled something that Spot had said: _What am I supposed ta do? Stay deah forever, always a newsie, nevah able ta make somet'ing of myself?_ She was surprised that he thought of Brooklyn as a prison. _No one asked him to stay forever. Even I think about what I could do in the future, but why should I have to worry about it now? Things are rough, but it's better in Brooklyn than a lot of places. Where would I go? What would I do? Thoughts of being a shivering, starving form hunched in the gutter caused the girl to shudder as she imagined what would happen to the Brooklyn newsies if Jackal were to take over._

*****

            Spot felt as significant as his name implied. Tears stung his eyes and blurred his vision, distorting the view from the single grimy window in the tenement. He had left Brooklyn in hopes that he could finally make something of himself; now he realized that he was a failure no matter where he resided. In an attempt to take responsibility for the family he had abandoned, he had allowed the Brooklyn newsies to become so weakened that they were on the verge of destruction._ No maddah what I do, my faddah was right, he conceded. _Granddad was wrong and my faddah was right._ Spot clutched his grandfather's cane with such force that he expected it to shatter into a thousand splinters under his pale knuckles._

            He thought of his grandfather—a gentleman despite his social standing—who had had such high hopes for his grandson. _He musta t'ought I'd be da one ta make it outta da tenements, ta start my own business and make millions. He musta t'ought he saw somet'ing in me dat wasn't evah actu'lly deah._

His teeth clenched tightly so that his sudden rush of rage would not explode from his mouth. _And who asked him ta tell me all dat, huh? Ta lie ta me so dat eventu'lly I'd get more disappointed den I coulda evah imagined? My faddah musta seen it all along. Shit, how could I not have realized what da truth was? How could I have evah t'ought I'd be more den jus' a lousy street kid dat ain't nevah gonna get anywheah?  His hands trembled with the urge to crack the cane in two—a swift, clean, violent break to severe all ties with his former aspirations. Suddenly his eyes were dry as if he prepared to end all emotion along with his former goals. _I didn't cry at my own faddah's funeral and I sure as hell ain't gonna cry now.__

            He lifted his cane to shoulder level, studying it as if it were an implement of destruction. _Destruction is right,_ he thought irately as he drew a sharp breath. His muscles tensed and his arms fell swiftly.

            "Ethan." Eyes wide as though he had been caught committing a heinous crime, he froze at the sound of his mother's voice; the cane hovered six inches above his knee. "What are you doing?" she inquired, moving cautiously towards him, her bright blue eyes shining with concern and fear.

            "Not'ing," he answered more sharply than he had intended to, fecklessly tossing the cane to the dirty floor. He gazed out the window in hopes of finding something that would provide the answer to all of his problems. All that the window offered him was a view of the shabby tenement building only a few yards away. Suddenly finding it difficult to breathe, he pressed his hand against his pounding chest, somehow managing to maintain a detached veneer.

            "Ethan," his mother repeated, forcefully this time, as she stood beside him. "Why did you come here?"

            His spine and expression went rigid at this question. When he turned to face her, he blinked in betrayed confusion. "What?" he asked, unable to conceive any other reply to her question. For a moment, he imagined himself thrown out by his own family, rejected by every newsie in New York, and forced to live on the streets—worse off than even before. His heart pounded rapidly at the thought of dirt-encased children starving together in the gutter, emaciated arms and legs extended from layers of thin rags.

            "Did you come because you wanted to?" she inquired, her voice calm but direct and insistent, reminding Spot of his own usual tone, although she (having been raised) lacked his accent. "Or because you thought you had to?"

            "You don't want me heah?" Spot demanded incredulously as his back arched defensively.

            "Of course I want you here. You're my son and no matter where you go or where you've been I will always love you." She sighed tiredly and leaned against the wall as she solemnly eyed the room. Her gaze was distant, as if she saw the room not in its current state, but as a stage for the reenactment of all that had occurred since she and her husband, as newlyweds, had moved there. "I know it was hard for you, darling. Your father…he didn't understand. And at the end he was so bitter—so angry at what had happened in his life, even though he had worked so hard…" She shook her head dejectedly. "I just don't want to take you away from everything that you've worked so hard for."

            Spot found it difficult to produce any sound for a moment. "What…what do you mean?"

            A faint, sad smile curled at the corners of his mother's lips. "Your grandfather knew you would make something of yourself one day." The edges of her eyes crinkled in loving memory of her father, who had spoken so eloquently and who had taught his daughter to use the same dignified language.

            "Too bad he was wrong," he spat bitterly.

            Spot's mother turned to him, her forehead furrowed in confusion. "Wrong? I know for a fact that he was more proud of you than of anyone he had ever known."

            "Maybe he only saw what he wanted ta see." 

            "He saw the truth," she insisted gently but firmly.

            Scowling angrily at his mother's illusions, he turned to his mother with a irritated, irate expression. "Mom, I know I ain't done much. Ya don't have ta lie ta me anymoah." He breathed deeply, struggling for air as he strained to maintain control of his emotions. "I know I ain't gonna get anyt'ing more den what we got now." He gestured furiously to their sparse apartment, his eyes cutting to the bare floor, the battered furniture, and the chipped dishes on the rickety table. The paper-thin walls came nowhere near to blocking the noises from other tenements—young couples arguing, children being chastised, babies wailing like banshees. Cockroaches and rats scurried back and worth in the spacious darkness of the hallway. "Dis is _it_ and I gotta accept dat!"

             Spot did not realize that he was trembling until his mother cautiously placed a hand on his shoulder to steady him. Ashamed at this display of weakness, he violently pushed her arm away. She did not attempt to touch him again but rather stared at him with concern clouding her weary eyes. "Ethan, don't you realize what you have?"

            "Oh, and what do I have, Mom?" he demanded. "Any money? A place ta live dat don't have rats and da bittah cold? Any hope of da future?" He gazed out of the window in exasperation and, instead of seeing the distant, golden horizon, saw only the run-down tenement building next door, which he knew was identical to the one in which he now resided. His face was placid but his voice became choked, and he dared not look at his mother as he spoke. "I still got such a long way ta go, Mom."

            Suddenly Spot felt as though his legs were filled with sand instead of sinew. His blood raced, as though he had been running for hours and finally was forced to stop in fear that his heart would burst from the intense strain. _And I still ain't anywheah, and I got so far ta go. I got less den even before—no Brooklyn, no friends, no prayah of gettin' anyt'ing else. His heart sank, back muscles tensing in a combination of disappointment, anger, and hopelessness. Even breathing was a struggle now, particularly in the dust-filled air of the tenement. For the first time in his entire life, Spot felt a weakness and a frustration that extended throughout his body and spirit. Vaguely he wondered if this is what his father had felt—if this was what had made his father call him worthless. __Maybe lookin' at me was like lookin' in a mirror._

            "Ethan," his mother spoke, raising her voice to command his attention. Under any other circumstance he would have smiled at the resemblance she bore to him when he was reprimanding a troublesome young newsie. "Don't you realize what you have?"

            _What I nevah had, he thought grimly. __What I lost._

            She did not feel the need to wait for a reply. "Without your help, our family wouldn't have survived this long. Your father…he…he was so frustrated with life…. You know he stopped working, drank too much… If you hadn't been helping us all these years, I don't even want to think about what would have happened." Spot suddenly imagined his mother and siblings huddled together in the gutter, swaddled in rags, and begging for change. Memories of similar families, whom he had seen trampled by carriages and spit upon by the wealthy, sent a violent shudder throughout his entire body. "And to lead the Brooklyn newsies for so long… How many people do you think can do that?" 

            Petulantly rolling his eyes, he snapped, "Lots of people've been da leadah of Brooklyn; it ain't like I run a newspapah."

            "And what's happened to Brooklyn now that you're here?"

            Spot tensed, his eyes widening to the size of teacups. "Ya heard?" he ventured. With a nod of response from his mother, he continued, "Can't ya jus' forget about it?"

            She crossed her arms over her chest with a doggedness that Spot had never seen in her before. His eyebrows raised slightly at this show of tenacity and strength. "No," she replied, "I'm worried about you, darling. I don't want you to throw away all that you have."

            Spot was certain that the splintered floor quaked beneath his tattered boots. Falling gracelessly into a nearby chair, he cound that he could not look into his mother's eyes, which reminded him so much of his grandfather's. They were so full of hope and love for her son, making it impossible for him to even glance at her without shame stabbing at his stomach. As if seeking help from another source, he looked to every object in the room; but the sight of his environment only serve to distress him further. _What if I end up like my father?_ he wondered, remembering a thundering, piercing voice that had seemed to make the walls crack with its rage and disgust. The memory of another place where he had once lived caused his stomach to twist in anxiety. Spot had already abandoned the Brooklyn newsies, his closest friends since he had been an optimistic five-year-old, ready to make a thousand dollars in only a few years. What would stop him from doing the same to his family?

            Leaping up from his chair, Spot avoided glimpsing his mother as he marched diligently to the door. Mumbling the feeble excuse of, "I gotta get some air," he rushed into the hallway before his mother could open her mouth to protest.

*****

            The neighborhood had not changed much in the previous decade. Identical, dilapidated buildings lined the street, nearly stooping over in weariness like their occupants. Occasionally, the face of a very young child or a wrinkled grandparent would appear behind one of the broken windows, glancing at the busy sidewalk. Unlike some of the other neighborhoods in Manhattan, none of the upper class strolled here. Instead, grease-stained men and women (returning home from hours in a factory) marched tiredly back to their tenements. Those children who were not able to work yet occasionally stole a moment from aiding in the household chores to sit on their front steps, playing games with spare bits of string and their imaginations. Every so often a mother's foreign tongue—usually Italian or German or Celtic—shouted to one of her stray children playing on the sidewalk. Thin, grimy alley cats hunted the equally dirty pigeons that strutted through the piles of garbage.

            Spot kept his head down as he walked, concentrating on the cracks in his tattered boots instead of his surroundings. His legs moved stiffly and shoulders hunched like those of an elderly man. His eyes, once confident and laughing, were now downcast and defeated. He moved slowly but steadily, although he had no idea in which direction he was headed. To the passersby, his face was reminiscent of a stone statue's, with his carved frown and his lonely, distant eyes.

            The air was bitingly cold, unusually so for an autumn morning. Spot wrapped his arms tightly around his body to warm himself and in reaction to the fear that he would fly apart. Wandering aimlessly down streets and sidewalks, he allowed the knowledge of his youth to guide him. He could almost hear the ghost of his young voice—high-pitched and cheerful then—resonating against the brick walls of buildings and glass windows of stores. Gazing at the children running carelessly in the streets, the old women trudging to factories, and the elderly men of fortune riding in their luxurious carriages with their young mistresses at their side, he shuddered unconsciously. He did not dare ask himself which image he would most likely resemble in forty years.

            He found it odd to be stalking the streets of Manhattan after so many years. Even his visits to the Manhattan newsies had been brief affairs._ I willin'ly choose ta stay in da place I avoided for so long. While considering the irony of the situation, he heard a familiar voice behind him._

            "So ya did come back, huh?"

            For a moment Spot wondered if it was the voice of a memory, deepened into manhood. Turning slowly, a frown of distaste deepened on his lips. "Good eyes, Jacky-boy. And a good mouth, I heah, too."

            Jack's eyes narrowed, and he resisted the urge to toss down his papers and thoroughly pummel the newsboy standing agitated before him. "What was I supposed ta do? Lie ta dem—people who are supposed ta be your friends? I didn't even know for shoah if ya was heah."

            "And wheah else would I be?" Spot demanded, glowering fiercely at the newsboy. _What oddah choice did I have? Spot wondered, imagining the grimy tenement with its stale air and walls that rattled with each gust of wind. "What else could I have done aftah my faddah died and left my muddah wid a lot of problems and not a lotta money." Spot quickly cursed his tongue, wishing that he had not let that slip. But he realized that Jack would have found out eventually; he might as well learn the information from its source._

            Jack tensed, startled by this newfound information; memories of a slim, hunched man whose words cut like razors filled his mind at once. His throat clenched, unable to imagine how Spot must have felt at the news that his father had died at last. "Spot, I…" He struggled for words of consolation and apology, but Spot quickly raised his hand in a careless objection.

            "Don't even try. Ya done enough already." He moved to walk away, hoping never to see Jack again. Then, recalling a bewildered Roxy standing uncomfortably in his tenement, he turned on his heel to face the newsie once again, blue eyes blazing with fury. "Do ya realize dat I coulda jus' slipped away widout anybody knowin' what happened ta me? I coulda jus' been forgotten in Brooklyn. And dat's da way I want it, Jacky-Boy—I don't want no part of Brooklyn anymoah."

            "Why shouldn't I have told dem?" Jack demanded. "Dey have a right ta know why ya left. Why'd ya have ta slink away like some coward dat couldn't—"

            Jack was unable to finish his question, for he found himself sprawled on the ground, papers haphazard around him and blood dripping from his newly cracked lip. He touched his mouth gingerly, wincing at the pain. Rising to his feet, he faced Spot, whose taut body revealed his readiness to hit Jack once again.

            "Ya couldn't use dat on Jackal?" Jack inquired with grim humor. "Ya know dat Brooklyn is in real trouble, don't ya?"

            Spot's dangerously stoical expression was unmoved; but Jack thought he noticed concern forking through his eyes like lightning. "Brooklyn'll get by fine," he replied, unable to quell an uncertain tremble in his voice.

            "Oh, shoah. If dey don't get killed in da process. Ya know what happened ta Grin?" The memory of Grin lying cold and motionless on his bunk flashed through Spot's mind, causing him to gaze down for a moment. Observing this, Jack continued quickly. "Deah could be more of dat. Brooklyn newsies—_your newsies—are getting beat up at every cornah and in every alley."_

            "Dey've had trouble befoah. Why should dey let this time be any different?"

            "Because dis time _is_ different," Jack spat, leaning forward as though for emphasis. "Dey're confused why deir leadah and friend would abandon dem like dis; dey ain't ready for a fight like dis, and Jackal knows it, and _you_ know it." Drawing a deep breath in hopes of calming himself, Jack continued, "I know ya gotta take care of your family. Nobody wants ya ta abandon dem, but nobody wants ya ta abandon Brooklyn, eiddah."

            Taking an aggressive step forward, Spot moved as if he was going to hit the Manhattan newsie, but rather raised his voice. "Who are ya ta tawk? Ya still got dat Santa Fe comic in you'se back pocket."

            The frown on Jack's face deepened and he found himself unable to look the other boy in the eye. He recalled the day the newsies had beaten Pulitzer, and when he had been the closest he had ever come to abandoning his friends. That afternoon, he had practically felt the heat of the Santa Fe sun on his shoulders, heard the coyotes howl in the distance, and breathed the clean air. Even the distant whistle of a train had made his pulse quicken. Then, speaking lightly in the manner of polite conversation Teddy Roosevelt had inquired about his life as a newsie, tearing the newsboy from his imagination.

            "It's not dat bad," he had remarked, "aside from da wheddah and gettin' up earliah den anybody else in da city. And at least we got each oddah, unlike a lot of oddah kids." The thought that, for the first time in over a decade, he would not be surrounded by familiar faces and streets jarred Jack. He certainly had enough street-smart enough to get by anywhere, but to be completely alone after everything that had happened? To arrive in Santa Fe without Racetrack's jokes, Mush's daydreams, or Crutchy's quiet friendship? To never sit at the Jacob's table and laugh about the day's headlines with David again? A quiet but persistent ache manifested itself in his chest and he found that he could not ignore it, could not get onto the train because of it.

            Jack turned to Spot with a renewed sense of strength. "Shoah, I got it. But I ain't plannin' on jus' leavin'. Nobody expects me ta stick around forevah, but it ain't like I wanna get outta heah as soon as I can.'

            "Dat's da difference between you'se and me."

            Jack blinked in confusion. _Maybe it ain't jus' about his faddah dyin' and his family needin' him,_ he realized as his studied Ethan's tense form. "Whadda ya mean?"

            Words spewed forth from Spot's mouth, almost against his will. His stoic expression replaced by one of fury and frustration. "I got responsibilities and stuff ta do, Jacky-Boy. I ain't gonna let all dat pass me by so dat I only realize it when I can't do a damn t'ing about it. I ain't gonna get bittah and angry about what I was nevah able ta get. I don't got a damn t'ing, Jacky-Boy, and neiddah do ya. I'm jus' tryin' ta make shoah I don't end up like ev'rybody else. And if dat means I gotta leave Brooklyn—which ain't even woith shit anyway—den dat's what I'm gonna do."

            Jack's fists clenched irately but his voice was calm and even. "If ya really t'ink dat ya don't got anyt'ing, den dat's da woist of your problems." Without waiting for any kind of response, Jack strode confidently passed Spot. He turned a corner and reached into his pocket to extract his Western Jim comic, tattered due to age and use. For the first time in his life he felt the desire to toss it into the gutter.


	12. Chapter 12

Author's note: Things are going slow now that we're getting closer to the end and I apologize for my few updates. But I'm still working, so please don't forget about me. Thanks to Volcanous for her loyal reading and reviewing, and as always thanks to Bittah for her beta-reading and support. Enjoy!

            The Debler Street newsies were drunk on cheap whiskey and their impending success. They sang distasteful pub tunes (or at least attempted to mumble through the verses) and danced to an unheard rhythm. Cigarette butts were dropped fecklessly on the floor while newsies competed with each other to see how many empty bottles they could break with a slingshot. The noise of the bacchanal made the walls of the lodging house tremble as though in fear of the wrath of its occupants. The person who should have been most feared did not, however, partake in the revelry. Instead he perched on the ledge of a window and stared down into the streets below.

            "Hey," Jester spoke with drunken curiosity as he leaned sideways to speak to Toad and almost lost his balance, "what's wid Jackal?"

            Toad shrugged and squinted at the row of half-broken bottles. "Ah, who knows? He ain't nevah one for fun. He prob'ly won't even celebrate when we get Brooklyn. Come on, I bet ya five cents I can make dis shot wid one eye closed." Jester's frown conforted with confusion as he stared at their leader for a second; then, at the sound of breaking glass, turned his attention back to the competition.

            Bent slightly forward, Jackal's hunchback was more defined and thus created a greater appearance of physical weakness than usual; his thoughts were anything but. He was careful not turn to his fellow newsies so that that (even in their drunken haze) they would not see the scorn illuminating his eyes.

            _Ya jus' need dem for a liddle while longah, he reminded himself. _Who cares what happens ta dem aftah ya get Brooklyn? It'd prob'ly be beddah if dey weren't even around; I could get some new newsies, some beddah ones. But I'll t'ink about dat when da time comes.__

            Now he had to think about the next step in his acquisition of Spot's—no, Wager's—territory. A snakelike smile curled slowly at the edges of his lips. _Spot is gone; da Brooklyn newsies have been mostly pummeled; dey can't sell even if dey wanted ta. He chuckled maliciously under his breath, the sound as cold as the wind whistling outside. Reaching into his back pocket, he extracted the large kitchen knife he had taken great pains to keep sharpened. It gleamed coldly in the light like the physical embodiment of his laughter. _Not'ing can stop me now.__

            With angry determination, he recalled years ago when he had first promised himself that he would take all of Brooklyn, by any means possible. Pain and death did not concern him in the slightest. _Da end justifies da means,_ he had often told himself.

            _And it will be da end, he assured himself. _Da end ta dis life—if ya can even call it dat—on Deblah Street, da end ta da way t'ings have always been in Brooklyn, _he thought, unable contain his laughter now. The newsies halted their celebration to stare at their leader in wary confusion. __And most importantly, da end ta da Brooklyn newsies._

*****

            _Never underestimate yourself, my boy. You're bound for great things. Spot could almost hear his grandfather's voice on the wind that knocked against the tenement building. He imagined his grandfather standing with such dignity before him, sighing sadly and mumbling about how he had been so wrong, so disappointed. Spot shook the thought out of his head and attempted to concentrate on fixing the rickety table, which had always wobbled threateningly under the weight of dishes. Lily sat contentedly by the furnace and sang bits of songs, often growing tired of the tune before the second verse. Spot was not sure whether she was doing so for his benefit or for her own entertainment, but he was grateful for her voice. It helped to ground him in reality._

            "Oh if I was a blackboid, I could whistle and sing. I'd follow da vessel my true love sails in and in da top riggin' I would deah build my nest and I'd flutter my wings o'er her lily-white breast." Spot hid a smile at her New York accent struggling with the Irish brogue.

            Becca entered from the other room and scowled at her younger sister. "Do ya gotta sing all day?" she demanded.

            Lily contorted her face into one of furious rebellion and stuck out her tongue. "You'se jus' jealous," she insisted. "You'se are _so off-key dat ya make da cats in da alley yowl like crazy. And I like singin', so what's wrong wid dat?"_

            "I got a headache and you'se makin' it woise."

            "Whadda ya got a headache from?"

            "From woikin' at a factory, ya moron."

            "Aw, ya didn't even really woik. Ya jus' stood around all day and maybe did somet'ing wid a machine."

            "It was noisy."

            "_It was noooisy," Lily shrilled, wagging her head mockingly._

            "Shut up!"

            "Make me!" Lunging for each other, they began to wrestle on the floor. Becca managed to pin her younger sister without much difficulty. Lily, not about to admit defeat, bit down on Becca's hand and would not let go, despite her sister's shrieks of pain. 

            "Hey!" Spot cried as he leapt up from his position by the table and rushed to tear Becca off of Lily. "Break it up! Whadda ya t'ink you're doin'? Ya wanna get whole buildin' mad at us?"

            Becca narrowed her eyes venomously her sister. "She started it," she declared, spitting out the words like they were tomato seeds.

            Lily gasped as though Becca had spoken utter heresy. "No I didn't!" Turning to her brother with large, pleading eyes, she was the picture of innocence "Ya saw it, right Ethan? Ya saw her start it?"

            Spot was unmoved despite her resemblance to a pitiful puppy. "All I saw was two kids who outta be savin' deir energy for workin', not for fightin'. Now you stay on dis side of da room and you"—he looked at Becca—"stay on da oddah side." His solemn expression dared them to challenge his authority.

            "Fine," Becca growled and rolled her eyes as she stomped over to the other side of the room.

            As he went back to work, Spot recalled the myriads of time he had broken up similar fights among members of the Brooklyn Lodging House. _Musta been a million times, he thought, not knowing if the knot in his stomach was caused by longing or relief. He scowled, as though hoping to expel such thoughts, and attempted to concentrate on his work. It was not long before the ghost of his grandfather's voice began to waft in his mind again._

            _Great t'ings, huh? he thought irately. __Great like breakin' up fights between arguin' siblings and newsies, sellin' papes on a street cornah, and fixin' broken tables._

            A thought forked through his brain like lightning just as he raised a hammer to nail two pieces of the table together. His forehead furrowed as he wondered why he had never asked himself this before. _Why da hell does Jackal want my territory anyway? Shoah, it's beddah den Deblah  Street, but why ain't he aimin' for somet'ing else? Why don't he try ta get outta Brooklyn all tahgeddah? What does he t'ink I got dat he wants?_

            The images came slowly, drifting lazily through his brain like smoke in a disreputable bar. Spot considered how newsies from other boroughs whispered his name in a combination of awe and fear, and how the pedestrians always seemed willing to buy a paper at the cries of vastly embellished news. Memories of playing cards with Wager late on a Sunday night; of dancing with Cardinal to a lively tune Duck played on his penny whistle; of diving off of the edge of a pier and into the jarringly cold waters of the East River. He remembered joking with Gellar after a long day of selling and having quiet conversations with Roxy about the latest book she had found in the trash behind a young men's private school. A slow chuckle issued from his lips at the memories of Imp attacking an unsuspecting newsie (for no reason anyone could guess) and of Grin flashing his smile at even the wealthy girls who traveled the streets in expensive carriages. Placing his hand over his palpitating heart, in fear that it would slip free from where it had been safely resting for so long, he thought of sitting on the roof of the lodging house and gazing at the swirling river while listening to the cheerful din of his friends.

            He struggled to get hold of the vast realization that was stewing in his brain. _What if Granddad was right aftah all, and I jus' didn't know what he meant?_

            Chortling softly under his breath at the irony of the situation, Spot shook his head sadly. _Shit, ovah a decade and I finally undahstand aftah I lose everyt'ing I got._ His heart gave a hopeful leap against the warm skin of his chest; his mind flitted to the memory of Roxy standing before him, her eyes filled with tears that she had not allowed to fall. _But she already told me ta nevah come back._ With a sigh of defeat, he leaned against the table, which creaked under the slight pressure, and wondered if it was too late to regain everything that he had lost.

*****

            The air in the Brooklyn Lodging House was thick with tense silence. Everyone moved cautiously, as if they feared disturbing something as immense and powerful as the rest of the universe. Roxy was reminded of a funeral although she did not know what exactly had died. _Is it our lives together? Our happiness?_ she wondered as she aimlessly leafed through a tattered copy of Romeo and Juliet before shoving it aside, frustrated. She could faintly hear Gellar's grandfather clock ("made by my father's own two hands; the only thing he took with him from Scotland," he always told new members of the lodging house) meticulously ticking away the seconds. _Ticking away to what? __What is going to become of us?_

            Her thoughts were interrupted by Rabbit's gentle, albeit choked, humming. Roxy's forehead furrowed in confusion as she followed the voice into the boys' bunkroom, where Rabbit sat with Grin's unresponsive hand in hers. Even from a distance Roxy could see that Rabbit's eyes were crimson. Roxy leaned carefully against the doorway and chose not to make her presence known. It was not that she wished to eavesdrop on the private moment; she simply did not want to lose the sight of beauty in the face of so much darkness.

            Suddenly Rabbit's tune included words. Her voice was lyrical with the Irish accent she had lost long ago, as a child traveling to America with only her brother at her side. "And I'd give the world if she could sing that song to me, this day. Toora loora looral, toora loora lie. Toora loora looral, hush now don't you cry. Toora Loora looral, toora loora lie. Toora loora looral, it's an Irish lullaby."

            Chuckling embarrassedly, Rabbit pushed a hand through her unkempt locks. "I know dat lullabies are meant ta put ya ta sleep, and you're already deah, but I like dat song anyway." She shook her head and snorted at the futility of her efforts. "Not dat ya even know I'm heah." Frowning solemnly, she paused for a moment and when she continued, tears hindered her ability to speak. "Ya know, Grin, we...we can't get along…widout ya. I can't. So ya gotta get beddah. I...I know ya prob'ly jus' t'ink I'm some kinda flirt…and I pretty much am…but ya gotta be heah, Grin." Rubbing her nose with the back of her hand, she laughed ironically. "Not dat ya'll evah know it, but I t'ought I outta say so."

Roxy felt as though her throat was being pinched by an invisible hand. She whirled around and quietly walked away from her friends, hoping that Rabbit would not turn and see her eyes grow moist and red as she thought of a life without them. Then, instead of wanting to cry, she was consumed by a sudden rage. Her fists clenched so tightly that she thought her bones would break. Her expression was as calm and determined as Spot's had ever been. Dashing down the staircase, she flew to Gellar's desk, where the man was talking in low, solemn tones to Wager. Both looked up at her in bewilderment at her soberly dogged countenance.

            "What are we doing?" Roxy demanded, her eyes boring into the new leader of the Brooklyn newsies.

            His eyebrows raised and he blinked once. "Whadda ya mean? We'se heah 'cause we couldn't go sellin tahday—"

            "Because we're scared of the Debler Street newsies," she finished impatiently. "Yes, I know—and that's the problem. We're just _taking _it. We need to do something. We're Brooklyn. Isn't that worth fighting for?"

            Wager was wary, despite her exclamation. "Do ya realize how many hurt people we got heah, Roxy? It ain't like it'd be a real fair fight."

            "We don't have to jump up and run to Debler Street right now. Maybe we can make a plan, something that will let us fight without getting killed. But Wager, we have to do _something_. Of course we're hurt, in more ways than one, but does that mean we can just crawl into a fetal position and die? What are we doing now? Just waiting around to get or territory taken or destroyed, or to get ourselves killed. We're like…like lambs at the slaughter."

*****

            Jackal chuckled as he thought the exact same thing. _They don't even know what's gonna hit dem. Then, at the sight of his befuddled accomplices, his face distorted in a contemptuous scowl. "What?" he demanded, his tongue dripping with venom and his eyes flashing dangerously. Even Bulldog, the toughest and most favored of Jackal's newsies, took an apprehensive step back from his leader._

            "Jus' keep quiet," Jackal growled and was immediately lost in his thoughts once again. Vivid mages the burning of the Brooklyn distribution center—red flames stretching towards the sky, smoke as black as the night sky choking those rushing around, cries of fear—filled his mind. Vaguely he knew that people most likely died. He shrugged impassively. _If anybody died, it musta been an old workah or one of da Brooklyn newsies,_ he told himself. _And it was deah fault anyway for not gettin' away._ Then again, perhaps no one had died; he had only stayed long enough to watch the frenzy of his enemies. He laughed quietly but menacingly, recalling the crackling fire from his single match spreading to destroy the entire distribution center.

            There was nothing left of the building but a few charred pieces of wood and ash. Jackal fancied himself as a phoenix, but rather rising out of the ash of his own creation than that of his own flesh.

            Jackal was prepared to do anything to reach his goal. Memories of former Debler Street newsies resonated throughout his brain; some worked in factories now, under the vicious gaze of an unkind foreman. Others sat in the gutters, drowning their sorrow and dreams in malt liquor. A few were already dead, either due to hunger or accidents or in an attempt to make it out of Debler Street. The recollection of past leaders of the Debler Street newsies huddled in the streets, sobbing for what could never be obtained, enraged him. His eyes narrowed in fierce desire to make the Brooklyn newsies sob in a similar fashion.

            Suddenly he leapt to his feet with the speed of a viper, whirling around to face his surprised newsies. "Come on," he ordered and moved for the door.

            They hesitated. "Whadda ya mean, Jackal?" Swing asked, alcohol slurring his words.

            "I mean for ya ta follow me widout question," Jackal replied. He calmly folded his hands behind his back, giving the appearance of a stern but composed schoolmaster. His voice was even, especially in contrast to Swing's. His eyes, locked with Swing's but commanding the attention of all of the other newsies as well, were the only part of his body that revealed his violent frenzy. "Now come on. We ain't waitin' any longah ta get what we desoive."

To be continued…please review!


	13. Chapter 13

Author's note: Surprised to see an update, huh? I'm really sorry about how delayed this and my other stories have been. Life has gotten increasingly hectic, but I'm planning to finish this one (hopefully by the end of the year). This chapter's pretty long, so hopefully it'll be a little bit of compensation. Thanks to TheBostonNewsies, Rae Kelly, Inquisitive, Mags Bloom, Morning Dew, and Ashes for their reviews, and especially to Bittah, for her betaing, reviewing, and all around support. I hope you enjoy this part!

Neither Roxy nor Wager noticed the small, dark figure lurking in the corner of the stairway and listening to their tense conversation. Imp was used to hiding in shadows so that she could eavesdrop on private exchanges and later pipe up with stolen information. At the sound of anxious voices on the first floor, she crept downstairs slowly, barely daring to blink. Hearing the frenzy in Roxy's voice, Imp was unable to take a breath. Guilt and fear gnawed at her lungs and stomach.

_Ya didn't have ta tell dose two Deblah goons about Spot leavin', ya know,_ she reminded herself, her thoughts pricking like needles. _Ya coulda jus' kept ya're damn mouth shut and gotten clobbahed anyway. Ya coulda not betrayed anybody._

Thoughts of the broken, bloodstained bodies of her fellow newsies flashed through Imp's mind. Tears stung her eyes and she bit her lower lip to punish herself for displaying weakness. _Imps nevah cry_, she reminded herself, absently wondering if Spot held a similar credo.

Suddenly her legs siezed control of her body. Roxy and Wager, who had been arguing about the best way to deal with the Debler Street newsies, turned in surprise when they saw a dark flash dart outside. Sighing heavily, Wager moved lethargically towards the door, but Roxy stuck out her arm. Glowering at him, she shook her head. "I'll go."

"Ya can't go out deah alone…" he was chastising, but the only response he received was gust of wind and the sound of a door slamming.

Once outside, Roxy immediately felt foolish for her gesture. _Do I have some kind of death wish?_ She wrapped her arms tightly around her trembling torso and quickly glanced back at the lodging house. The thought of Wager—who could not do anything for the Brooklyn newsies now, who waited for another response from the Debler Street newsies, who was not Spot—made her cheeks burn in frustration. Turning on her heel, she marched away from the building. _Imp's gotta be found, anyway._

"Imp," she whispered, half-coaxingly and half-angrily, at every shadow she passed. Soon Roxy realized that she was several blocks away from the lodging house with no companion, no weapon, and no runaway newsgirl to show for her efforts.

_Why did I have to be so stupid? _she demanded of herself as she kicked a pebble into the gutter. Then, in a slightly gentler voice, she wondered, _And why did I have to get so angry at Wager? What would I have done in his place, anyway?_ The memory of Rabbit singing to an unconscious Grin stirred, causing her shoulders to slump. _We have to do something. I know he's afraid of what could happen, but that would be even worse. But what kind of choices do we have?_

"Well, they're choices that we have to make," she said aloud, so as to reassure herself.

_I wonder what would have happened if everything had been normal with Spot,_ she thought as she moved cautiously down the street. _He's the best leader we've ever had, but he's still just one person. Maybe this would have happened anyway…_ She shook her head and scowled quietly. _Why think about that now? He's not interested in coming back._

Suddenly, she heard footsteps behind her. Her heart leapt into her throat, and the names Spot and Imp were halted behind a wall of clenched teeth. Turning slowly on her heel, one small bit of hope manifested itself in the form of a silent prayer. _Please let it be good,_ she pleaed to the God that she had been raised to believe in.

No higher power was willing to respond to her wishes. Her face paled to match the corpse-like shade of Jackal's countenance.

He was accompanied by all of the Debler Street newsies, who laughed mockingly and swayed on drunken feet. Their hands clutched brass knuckles, rusty knives, and wooden clubs. Roxy took a timid step backwards, like a rabbit surrounded by a pack of wolves, but kept her eyes locked with Jackal's. She was questioning whether or not to run when the hunchbacked leader began to speak in a low but frenzied drawl.

"Who'd have thought a small defenseless Brooklyn newsgoil'd be out on a night like this?" He chuckled coldly. "Ain't dat a surprise?"

"So…so what?" Roxy stuttered and raised her chin, attempting to look as confident as Spot usually did, despite how her knees shook with the violence of an earthquake. "Just because you found me doesn't mean anything about the rest of the Brooklyn newsies. Just…just because I'm here doesn't mean that you're going to get anyone else."

A sly smile, reminiscent of a crocodile's, slide around his lips. "But no one's heah ta protect ya, Roxy. Don't _dat _say somet'ing about da rest of your newsies?"

His eyes flashed dangerously and wildly, making Roxy's stomach contract in fear. Struggling to maintain an appearance of control, she took a tentative step backwards. Immediately the Debler Street newsies surrounded her, laughing maliciously as she searched unsuccessfully for a way out. Even from the slight distance, Roxy could smell their foul, alcohol-drenched breaths. Gazing around at their viciously pleased eyes, she realized that she had never felt weaker; her muscles were sluggish, her brain was useless, and her tongue was paralyzed. _I never thought I would die helpless,_ she remarked silently, feeling her body shrink against the circle. She didn't know whether to weep in fear, to scream at the injustice of being murdered by a drunken group of ambitious newsies, or to kneel and accept her death quietly.

A streak of darkness tore past the group, temporarily drawing the attentions of Roxy and a few Debler Street newsies. "Hey, Jackal, what was dat?" Swing inquired curiously.

"A cat or somet'ing," Jackal snapped, his voice as sharp as his blade, "I don't care." His eyes never left Roxy.

The newsgirl stared back, searching for a trace of humanity in his countenance. His lips were shriveled and twisted into a grimace, while his chin jutted out challengingly. His cheeks, which were commonly as pale as death, were stained pink with rage. Then, when she looked into his eyes, although she was startled by the depth of hatred, she was most surprised by the desperation that existed there. Gazing quickly at the other members of the Debler Street lodging house, she could tell by their easy stances and mildly amused expressions that they could not conceive Jackal's frustration and anxiety. Roxy's eyes widened as she realized whose eyes bore a similar desperation. _He looks like Spot._ For a moment she longed to reach out to him; but then she remembered that that hand, poised to attack, was most likely the hand that had burnt the distribution office to the ground.

Jackal noticed Roxy's absorbed, sympathetic expression. He wanted to spit in her face and beat her senseless for having everything he wanted and then pitying him. Taking a slow but aggressive step forward, Jackal snarled, "No one was heah ta protect any of ya. Your leadah ran away at da foist sign of any real trouble, and now look at ya—a buncha scared mice ready ta be stomped out." His eyes narrowed to dark, dangerous slits. "Ya don't deserve Brooklyn."

"What makes you think you do?" Roxy asked, her voice soft and tight, but steady.

"Do we desoive what we got?" he countered immediately, his voice rising with each word. "Do we deserve ta starve and freeze and sell ta no one, because dey're jus' as poor as we are? Ya don't even know how good ya got it."

The image of Spot's shabby tenement flashed through her mind. _I guess none of us really knew how good we had it. _Anger boiled in her stomach, erasing any pity she had for the Debler Street newsies. "You think you'll do better here? Just because of the crowds." Her voice dropped low, far more challengingly than she knew would be prudent. "None of you are even a tenth of Brooklyn."

Before Roxy knew what was happening, Jackal, moving with more speed than she realized the hunchbacked boy possessed, had reached back and punched her to the ground. Pebbles pierced her palms and blood trickled out of her nose. Jackal towered over her, his eyes flashing madly and his hands twitching. "Ya t'ink ya're beddah dan me?" He chuckled derisively. "Ya can't even defend yaself. Ya'd have nevah been able ta take Brooklyn in my place."

"You haven't taken it yet," she murmured, clutching her nose and preparing for further pain, but staring at him steadily.

Instead of lashing out, as Roxy had imagined he would, he chortled derisively. "And ya t'ink dat ya're gonna stop me? Da weakest goil in Brooklyn, all alone and on da ground already?"

As the Debler Street newsies joined in his laughter, Roxy's face burned with rage. Blood dripped from her nose to her lips. She knew her eyes would soon sparkle with tears of frustration and fury. _Pain, too, if I stay here for any longer,_ she reminded herself with all the calmness of her practical friend Mist. Staring at the chuckling, distorted faces of the Debler Street newsies, she felt a surge of panicked courage. _I can't die like this._

Using all the strength she could muster, Roxy kicked Jackal in the stomach. While he was doubled over in pain and the rest of the newsies, whose minds were slowed from confidence and inebriation, looked on in surprise, Roxy leapt to her feet and dashed out of the dangerous circle. She did not dare to glance back to check on her enemies, but heard Jackal's furious cries.

"How could ya let her get away?" Jackal demanded of his cronies. "Stop her! It's jus' one stupid goil!"  
Nearly out of breath from fear and exertion, Roxy did not know how much longer she could continue to run. _Damnit, I wish I were Rabbit,_ she thought. She could not return to the lodging house in fear that the Debler Street newsies would attack the unprepared Brooklyn newsies. _And after a few weeks of tracking us, they probably know as many hidden corners and back alleys as I do,_ she told herself. Pushing herself to run faster, Roxy continued to bolt down streets, through alleys, and around buildings with the Debler Street newsies trailing her like hungry wolves. She could practically hear their teeth gnashing and their throats growling from their desire to kill her and the rest of the Brooklyn newsies.

Gellar glimpsed the pacing Wager over the top of his day-old newspaper. When Wager stopped in his tracks and stared at the owner of the lodging house, Gellar's gaze returned to an article he had already read. Wager was not fooled by Gellar's seemingly placid expression. From years of experience, he knew that Gellar was about as placid as a waterfall.

"What?" he demanded, his eyes harsh and his tone frustrated.

"Did I say anythin'?" Gellar inquired calmly.

Wager scowled and kicked at the layer of dust that enveloped the floor. "No, but ya shoah t'ought it."

Gellar's eyebrows rose until they almost disappeared in his furrowed forehead. "And tell me, laddie, what exactly was I thinkin'? I'm curious te know."

"Ya t'ink I should go aftah Roxy." He stubbornly folded his hands over his stomach, as though to emphasis his desire to remain put. At the sight of Gellar's knowing stare, he shook his head. "Well I ain't gonna. She said she was gonna get Imp, and she's gonna do it. Somebody's gotta stay heah wid da oddahs."

Gellar grunted derisively and returned his gaze to his paper. When he did not reply, Wager continued, "Why should I be worried about her? Roxy's a Brooklyn newsie, same as da rest of us; she can take care of herself."

"Mmm-hmm," the older man replied thoughtfully, never lifting his eyes from the page. "Jus' like Grin took care of himself, eh, lad?"

He glanced over the edge of his newspaper to meet Wager's defeated gaze. The new leader of the Brooklyn newsies let his shoulders slump and his head hang in resignation. When Wager spoke, his voice was so hushed that Gellar had to guess at his words. "Spot wouldn't've let her go, huh?  
Sighing heavily, Gellar placed his newspaper solemnly on the counter, clouds of dust flying as a result. Wager's eyes widened in surprise. He realized that Gellar, usually hidden by a wall of ink and gruffness, was about to be very vulnerable. The large man leaned forward, much like Cardinal did when she was about to share a delicious piece of gossip. "Let me tell ye somethin', lad." He paused before dropping his voice to a whisper. "Spot wasn't a perfect leader." Wager's mouth dropped open at this heresy. Before he could protest, Gellar shook his head and continued, "Now, I don't mean that he wasn't a great leader—he was, and a good lad, too. One of the best I've seen and I've been here a long, long time. But he had his own set of problems, jus' like the rest of ye. He was always jus' tryin' te get ahead, jus' like anyone else in this lodgin' house. And now all of ye are so disheartened by his leavin' that ye don't realize that he wasn't perfect. No one is. He had a lot to deal with himself." His expression softened as he stared deeply into Wager's dejected eyes. "And lad, he ain't here right now. Ye are. Ye got te stop comparin' yeself te him, because ye're the leader now. Ye got te stop thinkin' in jus' terms of what's already been or you'll never be a good leader."

Although he was unable to hold Gellar's gaze, Wager nodded soberly. He thought of the anxious mass of newsies upstairs, all of whom were depending on him. Then an image of Roxy flashed through his mind. "I'm gonna try ta find Roxy," he informed Gellar in a voice that bore more confidence that he felt at that moment. "If I'm not back in da next twenty minutes, tell—"

The sound of the door creaking open caused Wager's heart to fly against his chest in a combination of hope and apprehension. _Please let it be Roxy and Imp,_ he prayed silent as he turned to face a very different figure than the ones he had hoped for.

Spot resisted the urge to squirm under the shocked stares of Wager and Gellar. Instead, he studied them with the solemnity of a judge. He realized that this was not the best time to adopt his Brooklyn cool, but he did not know how else to react in such a situation. _Whadda ya say ta your newsies aftah ya abandon dem jus' when real trouble's about ta start?_ Taking a step forward, he wondered what he could possibly say that would pacify the Brooklyn newsies. Thankfully, he never had to conjure up such a speech; Wager had already begun to speak.

"Spot…" he muttered, stunned. After the initial shock wore off, his eyes narrowed with uncommon bitterness. "Nice time ta show up."

Spot almost retreated at the harshness in Wager's tone. He barely recognized the young man with whom he had grown up. _Probably t'inks da same t'ing about me,_ the former leader of Brooklyn realized. "Look, I know ya all prob'ly hate me by now."

"Good guess."

"Wager…" Gellar murmured cautiously, eying the angered newsboy like one would study an injured animal prepared to strike out of fear.

"What?!" Wager exclaimed, feeling betrayed. "He leaves one mornin' wid only a note of explanation and now he shows up again jus' when t'ings are at deir woist." Clenching his teeth, he hissed, "As if ya could help any of us now." He took an aggressive step towards Spot, who tensed in preparation for a fight. "Now, if ya'll excuse me, I gotta go find Roxy."

"Roxy?" Spot spat, clutching Wager's arm when the boy attempted to rush past. "She's out deah alone?" His heart leapt into his throat at the suggestion of Roxy walking the streets unaccompanied at this hour. The thought of Roxy lying bloodied and broken like Grin made his throat tighten.

Wager turned his irritated gaze to meet Spot's eyes. "What do ya care about it anyway? She went ta find…"

The sound of the door bursting open and slamming against the wall caused all three occupants of the room to jump. They turned to see a breathless Imp rush into the lodging house, her cheeks flushed and her eyes wild with worry. Neither Spot nor Wager had ever seen the girl so frantic.

"Imp," Wager began, pulling away from Spot and kneeling before the girl, "wheah's Roxy?" When Imp only gasped for breath in response, he went on, as though she had not understood the question. "She went out ta find ya. Did ya see her? Did somet'ing happen?"

"Of…coise…somet'ing happened," she spat petulantly, irritated that Wager spoke to her as though she were some kind of dumb animal. "She…got attacked…by Jackal. Da…rest of dem…are deah too…all of 'em." Looking at the newsboy with more concern suffused across her face than had ever existed before, she pleaded: "Ya gotta go get her. Dey're gonna kill her."

"Are all of dem deah?" Spot inquired, staring at Imp with an intensity that surprised Wager and momentarily caused him to rethink his rebuke.

Imp nodded frantically. "All of dem, dey're gonna kill her and den come for da rest of us."

Wager took the young girl by the shoulders and stared deeply into her eyes, as though to better convey his directions. "Imp, go upstairs and tell ev'rybody who can fight dat we need dem. I'll go on ahead and help Roxy, but we'll need ev'ryone else. Get dem ta wheah ya t'ink Roxy and da Deblah Street newsies might be. Can ya do dat for me?" His stomach clenched, knowing that he was asking a huge favor of the newsgirl who ran off on her own, stole newspapers, and bit Cardinal on a regular basis.

Adopting an unusually solemn expression, Imp replied, "Of coise I can." Without waiting for further orders, she dashed up the staircase, her footsteps sounding like tiny gunshots in their urgency.

When Wager moved doggedly towards the door, he found Spot at his side. "I said I was goin', didn't I?" Wager growled, anger pouring from his tongue.

Spot, who had been proud of the way that Wager handled Imp, narrowed his eyes challengingly and adopted the confident, powerful expression that Wager knew all too well. The former leader of Brooklyn hid a smile at the sight of Wager's shoulders tense in aggressive response. "And I'm comin' wid ya. Ya can't take all da Deblah Street newsies on by yaself, can ya?" When the newsboy did not reply, Spot bolted out of lodging house with Wager at his heels.

To be continued…please review!


	14. Chapter 14

Author's Note: Bet you never thought you'd see this one again! Although updates are few and far between for all of my stories, I am absolutely determined to finish this one. And we're close now! Aside from this chapter, there's probably only one more to follow. Thanks to those who are still reading, especially Morning Dew and Bittah (my beta and without whom this story would never have gotten this far). Enjoy!

The cold night air pierced the bare skin of both boys, who quelled their shivers in attempts to concentrate on the perilous situation ahead of them. Their ears strained for any faint sounds of a struggle, while their feet led them around the darkened, secluded corners of Brooklyn. Spot vaguely wondered would see if he were to glance over at his friend. _Worry? Anger? Relief? Frenzy? A combination of all of dose?_ He recalled rushing from Manhattan, retracing the steps he had taken so many years ago with his namesake tugging enthusiastically at his leash. _Even if dey nevah want me back, at least I can help dem wid dis. At least I ain't gonna let one of my best friends die—if she ain't dead already._ The idea made his stomach twist violently, and caused his legs to quicken their pace.

"Do ya t'ink dey'd take her back ta Deblah Street?" Wager inquired, unable to conceal the anxiety in his voice.

Spot managed a shrug. "Dey might've, but if dey's comin' for all of us, like Imp says, I'm guessin' dat dey're somewheah around heah." He half-hoped that Roxy would cry out just so they would be able to follow her voice.

_If anyt'ing happens ta her…_he told himself, unwilling to finish the thought. He remembered the first time Roxy had entered the lodging house, a petite girl with a nose she would have to grow into and unwashed brown hair pulled back into two neat braids. It had taken three months for the girl to overcome her shyness enough to display her treasured copy of Cyrano de Bergerac. Her eyes had glowed when she described the story of romance, imagination and chivalry. Spot could not imagine waking in his bunk and knowing that he would never see Roxy's smiling face in line at the distribution office.

_Jus' let us save her,_ Spot thought, uncertain as to whom he appealed. _Nobody has to forgive me; I can be t'rown out of Brooklyn forevah, jus' as long as Roxy's okay. _Behind a thin veil of cotton and flesh, his heart beat a rapid tattoo. _Jus' let her be okay, and I don't care what happens ta me._

As if some higher power was finally beginning to listen to his prayers, a shrill cry pierced his eardrums. Spot and Wager immediately glanced at each other, eyes wide with fearful understanding.

"Come on!" Spot ordered the other newsboy, fists clenched in preparation and anxiety as he flew down the sidewalks he knew so well.

_I'm going to die,_ Roxy thought, feeling her legs grow numb from exertion and her pulse pound so wildly that she thought her veins would burst. _I'm going to die._ She tried to remember the prayers she had learned as a child for the dying, the prayers of mourning. Instead of Hebrew, images of her entire life—what she had done, what she would never do—flickered in her mind like the moving picture shows she had once snuck into with Grin. _I'll never read Pride and Prejudice, _she told herself. _I'll miss playing cards with Rabbit. I never did find Imp. The last thing I told Spot was that I never wanted to see him again._

Suddenly, Dash's hand grasped Roxy's shoulder. Her lungs collapsed from fear and exhaustion as his hand pushed her to the ground. The Debler Street newsies' drunken threats and the sound of her own heartbeat flooded Roxy's ears so that she could barely hear her own cry. Her shoulder hit the sidewalk with a thud. Nearing hysterics, Roxy wanted to laugh at the thought that now she would having bruises to match her other arm. _Even if I am the meekest newsgirl in Brooklyn, _she thought, _I sure have enough bruises to make it look like I'm a fighter._ When she tried to scramble to her feet, a boot pressed against the small of her back, forcing her abdomen to the pavement.

The Debler Street newsies, who had been cursing at the Brooklyn newsgirl, quieted as they watched their leader circle the girl like a vulture, until his boots were in front of her eyes. The momentary silence sliced through Roxy's frame. She did not dare to look into his eyes.

"Brooklyn arrogance," he sneared. "Dat's what lost ya dis prime territory." Sniggering maliciously, he added, "Dat and da fact dat your leadah didn't give a damn about any of ya."

Roxy's blood boiled. Hands gripping pebbles, she looked up and snapped, "Spot betrayed us all, but you'll still never be worth a tenth of him."

In an intsant, Jackal pulled the newsgirl up by her shirt collar, threw her against a nearby wall, and pointed his hunting knife against her pale throat. Her skin trembled against the metal as she choked back a sob. She lifted her eyes to the cold, distant sky and waited for the icy flash of the knife slicing across her delicate, pulsating flesh.

Instead of the sound of her own, final grasp for breath, Roxy heard a body hit the ground. Blinking, she saw two bodies struggling on the sidewalk, where she had lay a minute ago. Her lungs filled with air and she gasped, "Spot."

The Debler Street newsies gaped at the former leader of the Brooklyn newsies. "But ya left," Toad stated, pointing at Spot and swaying drunkenly.

"Real good plannin', Jackal," Cotton muttered.

"Nothin' has changed," Jackal declared, rising from where Spot had pushed him. His eyes flashed furiously as he studied the infamous newsboy. "One traitor ain't gonna make a difference." His voice dropped low as he strode over to Spot, a complacent grin on his bloodless lips. "I'm glad ya showed up for da end of dis. It wouldn'ta been da same takin' ovah Brooklyn knowin' ya was still alive."

Bulldog stepped forward, cracking his knuckles and chuckling under his breath as he eyed Spot. The Brooklyn newsie's muscles tensed, locking his gaze with Bulldog's. _If dey're gonna all attack me, let 'em,_ Spot thought. _At least I'll die like I oughta, not sick and tired of life in some dank dusty room._ None of the newsies, least of all Spot and Bulldog, expected Jackal's arm to suddenly extend, knife gleaming.

"Stay back!" Jackal shouted, glaring at Bulldog, who clutched his forearm helplessly. Blood began to soak his shirt. The Debler Street newsies' eyes darted towards each other, shifting nervously under their leader's piercing stare. "Do whatevah da hell ya want wid da oddah two, but leave Spot to me, or I sweah ta God I'll kill ev'ry last one of ya." Jackal's jagged yellow teeth glinted animalistically in his mouth. No one doubted his words. Spot could easily imagine Jackal slaughtering the lot of them—Brooklyn and Debler Street newsies all. They had seen the extent of his cruelty, but the newsies sensed the depths of insanity boiling underneath a surface of ambition.

Jackal's head turned slowly to face Spot, back arched like an animal poised to strike. Without a sound, he darted forward, blade gleaming in the light. Spot darted out of his way, wishing that he had a weapon more formidable than his faithful slingshot.

The Debler Street newsies, momentarily uncertain as to whether or not to obey a leader who threatened their death, followed his example. Roxy and Wager stood close together, fighting desperately as a dozen newsies attacked them at once. Thankfully, the coordination of the Debler Street newsies was off due to their celebration, giving the Brooklyn newsies a small chance at survival.

"Run for it," Wager snapped at Roxy between punches. "I'll hold 'em off."

"Are you kidding!" she shrieked. "We're finishing this." She dodged a kick. "And besides, I've already come to terms with death tonight."

Seeing his friends struggle with the throng, Spot attempted to rush to their aid. He was two steps away from Jackal when he felt a burning pain, and a sudden dampness on his shoulder—blood. Roxy and Wager would have to fend for themselves. Jackal was not like the other newsboys Spot had fought in his years of leading Brooklyn. Those fights had been mere scuffles, using only fists, but Jackal wanted nothing less than to stand over Spot's bleeding corpse. Turning back to Jackal, Spot knew that his only hope would be to level the playing field. Without a weapon, his only choice was to be on the defensive.

For such a shriveled, deformed boy, Jackal was a surprisingly good fighter. Powered by rage and insanity, he slashed at Spot and darted out of the way of Spot's punches. It was as though he was driven by the scent of blood and the knowledge that victory was within his grasp. Watching as Spot's usually calm expression grew increasingly frantic, he taunted, "What was da maddah, Spot? Got ta be too much for ya? T'ought dat deah might be somet'ing out deah dat's beddah for ya?" He laughed as his blade swiped Spot's hand. "Killin' ya's gonna be a mercy."

_I can't die heah,_ Spot thought, his hand numbing as blood dripped over his knuckles. _Not now._ _Not like dis. Not when ev'ryone's countin' on me._

A sound drifted to the fight; it started as a low rumble, almost inaudible, and then grew so loud that it overwhelmed the cries of the Debler Street newsies. Jackal and Spot paused briefly as they looked up to see the cause of the commotion.

The entire Brooklyn Lodging House sped around the corner, screaming and baring various weapons. Spot, Roxy and Wager beamed to see their friends, who had been so dispirited and divided an hour ago, rallying to fight for Brooklyn. The Debler Street newsies staggered in surprise as the Brooklen newsies jumped into the fight, moving deftly as though they had not been beaten savagely the previous day.

Out of the corner of his eye, Spot saw Jackal falter, as he considered the possibility of losing everything he had worked for. His mouth trembled, like that of a dying fish, and his eyes widened at the multitude of enemies. Spot realized that this was his only chance. Without hesitation, he threw a violent blow to Jackal's face. The Debler Street leader fell to the ground, the knife slipping from his hand. Although the noise of the fight was deafening, Spot swore that he heard the scrapping of the knife against the cobblestones.

Jackal scrambled to his feet, but it was too late—Spot held the knife in his hand, watching Jackal with solemn, dangerous eyes. Jackal could see that, despite their prior injuries, the Brooklyn newsies were beating their Debler counterparts. Jackal felt his heart pound against his breast and wondered if he was going to die of a heart attack. Perhaps that would have been kinder. _Dis can't be happenin',_ he told himself, backing away from Spot,_ not aftah all I done. Not aftah all I been t'rough._

Of all that Spot had anticipated from Jackal, he did not expect him to run. It took a second for Spot's brain to register that Jackal was bolting away from the fight. This moment allowed for Jackal to gain a considerable lead. Spot was faster by nature, but Jackal, although moving awkwardly due to his hunchback, ran like an animal from the mouth of a predator. The chase continued into a tenement building, up five flights of stairs, and finally, onto the roof. The noise of the fight echoed from the streets, but to the newsboys, it was as though they had stepped into a different universe entirely.

Spot watched Jackal carefully, as the Debler Street leader looked desperately for a way out. "It's ovah Jackal," Spot insisted, clutching the knife at his side. "Ya'll nevah get Brooklyn from me."

Jackal, realizing that he was beaten, swallowed. "What are ya lookin' at me like dat for, huh? Ya can't blame me for tryin'." He scoffed. "Aftah all, ya tried ta do da same t'ing, really. Jus' tryin' ta get outta dat goddamn hellhole. If anybody should undahstand, it oughta be you."

"I want ya out of Brooklyn altageddah," Spot said, ignoring Jackal's taunts. "If I heah of ya puttin' even a toe in my territory, evah again, I'll kill you."

A slow, toothy grin crept across Jackal's mouth so that his lips almost disappeared. Spot tensed, anticipating a final assault. Instead, Jackal slowly moved backward, keeping his eyes locked with Spot's. He reached the edge of the building and stepped onto the ledge. A cold breeze blew up from the streets and ruffled Jackal's greasy hair. He spread his arms so that they were parallel with the ground, and lifted his palms towards the sky. _Oh, God,_ thought Spot as he watched Jackal lean backwards, the emptiness consuming him.

His stomach clenched for the split second before he heard the violent thud, the splintering of wooden crates, and the thick crack of Jackal's head against the cobblestones. For a moment, Spot could only stand there, holding the knife of a boy who was certainly dead now, who had wanted to escape his poverty so badly that he was willing to kill. What would he have done in Jackal's place? Eventually Spot willed himself to move, feeling dread and disgust spread like a cancer throughout his body as he made his way down the darkened staircase of the tenement building. He feared he would be ill as he entered the alley and saw Jackel's broken body.

_Maybe it's beddah dis way,_ Spot thought, kneeling beside the finally still Jackal. Limbs twisted at unnatural angles and blood soaking his hair, Jackal was the image of desperation and misery even in death. Hand trembling, Spot reached out and carefully closed Jackal's eyelids. _Wheah could he have gone aftah dis anyway?_

Hearing slow footsteps behind him, Spot rose to his feet and turned to see his intruder.

"Spot, are—" a breathless Roxy stammered before catching sight of Jackal's body. "Oh. Oh, Spot."

"He jumped," Spot explained, finding it suddenly very difficult to speak; it was as though his throat was lined with damp newspaper. "I guess he figuahed he'd raddah be dead dan what he was." His mouth trembled as he struggled in vain to relate what had happened. He was grateful when Roxy rushed to him and flung her arms around his neck, pulling him close. Holding her fiercely, he said a silent prayer for the Brooklyn newsies, for his family, for Roxy, for Jackal, and for himself. _Jus' let dem be okay,_ he pleaded with whatever higher power might be listening. _Anyt'ing can happen ta any of dem, and as long as I'm around dem, I'll be okay, no maddah wheah I am, no maddah what I end up doin'._

A crisp wind rushed down the alley, carrying the echoes of triumphant voices. Above, the clouds opened up to reveal cold, glittering stars. Somewhere, he knew, people he loved were counting on him fulfilling his grandfather's promise of greatness. Then, as he thought of the solitary deaths of his father and Jackal, in contrast with the sensation of Roxy's arms around his neck, he wondered if, somehow, he had not already fulfilled that prophesy. He did not cry that evening, but, breathing deeply, he felt as though he had.

To be continued…please review!


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